Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold
by Stewart M
Summary: December, 1940. The birth of a shaky truce twixt the Caped Crusader and the Peerless Purloiner. An insidious cabal threatens the city behind a mask of militant authority. Can the partnership of this peculiar pair prevail? Has the Dark Knight finally found a foe so above the law even he cannot deliver the offender to justice? What lies in store for Cat and Bat? Stay tuned!
1. Ships That Pass in a Corner Diner

All claims are DC. Please enjoy. Reviews humbly appreciated.

**Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold  
**

**Chapter 1: Ships That Pass in a Corner Diner  
**

* * *

Cities had homeless communities. This was a universal fact, and its recognition was a fine sign of this century's progressive spirit. But what precious few cared to learn was that every homeless community was just that - a community. Admittedly not the warm and stable communities most citizens were used to; if the middle class had as many loners and predators among their ranks as the destitute, they would call it anarchy. But transients were still people; they had rules and rituals, bazaars and town halls, friendships and enmities. In the barest, skeletal sense they collaborated. They got by.

For reasons far too numerous to mention, the largest homeless community in the country could be found on the thicket streets of Gotham City. With their numbers and density, the Gotham homeless were proportionally well-organized. Unfortunately, winter had arrived. Winter for the homeless was something between a bombing siren and a slow-motion riot. Life wasn't easy in the warm months, but in winter every tiny choice might be life or death. In winter their meek community could fray very quickly. Compromise and civility were not common strengths in the cold and hungry.

But if any pair among them was ready for the season, it was Wendell and Alice Dupree. Most people on the street were alone. Couples were very rare indeed. Having a steady partner to watch your back and help you smile on the bad days was invaluable. And they were well-off by local standards. They both had their health and a pack of warm clothes. They had an understanding with the neighbors to respect each others' territory (strife over real estate was always the worst between those who didn't own real estate). And their territory was quite nice indeed, a little nook in the rear wall of the 8th Street train station. Warm train exhaust blew through the grate every half hour. This is where they called home.

Wendell and Alice were both very tired and when the station clock chimed eleven they were already fast asleep. A sleek car rolled to a stop nearby. It was far too clean for the neighborhood; in Gotham a car like that drew young hustlers like gnats to a lamp. But then three big men got out, harsh shapes in the dark, and any greedy eyes nearby slunk back into their shadows. The burly men wore gloves and low caps, the timeless uniform of professional muscle. They knew about the Dupree's little nest thanks to a few bribes to the neighbors. The three strode up quietly. With a dying flashlight, they spied the sleeping couple and nodded to each other: right age, right size, no obvious illnesses or injuries.

The coast was clear. Unsmiling, two of the men bent down, each holding a thick cotton rag. Only heavy sleepers could live next to a train station, but at the last moment Alice's eyes fluttered open. Half-awake, she witnessed a large form nearing her face. She tried to scream. It came out a weak hiss.

As the two finished, the third man stood and watched. They left the bodies. The third man fished around in his pocket for some coins. A few streets over, he found a pay phone.

"Ma'am, it's Lieutenant Wilson. We're done. No, no interruptions. You're welcome, ma'am."

* * *

Three nights later.

The Hughes Diner and Café was one of the city's hidden gems, the kind only neighbors and high-brow food critics knew about. It took a simple service – hot coffee – and made it perfect through a loving attention that kept the regulars coming back year after year. Like most corner diners, the Hughes was unpretentious and cozy. New faces were greeted as "Buddy" or "Mack" or "Ma'am". The air smelled like bacon grease and lemon meringue. When a tired soul sat down at the Hughes Diner and Café the future just seemed a little brighter,and in Gotham that was saying something.

Tonight that soul was Selina Kyle, sitting alone on the middlemost stool. She wore a green sweater with a reindeer on it. There was a bandage across his nose. Selina gazed wistfully at the bric-a-brac behind the counter and her own reflection in the shiny soda spigot. On the scratchy radio, a brassy blues trumpeter played "Dream a Little Dream of Me". The neon sign in the window behind her flickered. She sighed and laid her chin in her hand, absentmindedly stirring two creams into her cup of Joe.

"You're not your usual lively self this evening, 'Lina."

The proprietor, Mister John Quigley walked over while wiping a tall glass. He was a portly man with ruddy cheeks and big jowls. In his apron and white paper hat he looked quite dapper, like Santa Claus' younger brother. He leaned his elbow on the counter and offered a disarming grin. Selina shrugged and tasted some coffee off her spoon. "You know how it is: some days you're walking on clouds and other days you're just caught in the storm."

John whistled. "That's awfully poetic. Did you think of that?"

She grinned and pointed her spoon at him. "Now Johnny, are you saying all ladies are too empty-headed to be clever or just us pretty ones?"

He held up his hands in surrender. "Geez, Selina. You know I got the utmost respect for the mind of any classy dame like you."

"You mean a paying customer like me."

"Hey, my daughters are twice as smart as me and the oldest ain't yet fourteen. And my mother's always been smarter than me. And Lily…well, she married me so the jury's out on that one."

"She's not a fool either Johnny. She just pitied you."

"Ha. Then what a lucky schlub I am. Still, I still hate to see you down in the dumps, so whats'a matter?"

"Just a boring evening, nothing worth writing home about."

"Yeah? Nobody looks as distracted and lonesome as you cause of a 'boring evening'. Nobody comes here after dark in winter cause of a 'boring evening'. Nobody with a big bandage on their face had a 'boring evening'. What's the story?"

She shrugged bashfully and itched the bandage on her nose. "Maybe I just wanted some of your charming company."

"Sure, cause I'm Clark Gable."

"Better than Shirley Temple."

"Well as charming as I am, Green Eyes, you ain't off the hook with that fish tale."

Selina took a sip of her coffee and stared at the ceiling.

"Fair enough. This evening, I went to the Thames Street Hotel to visit a friend. When I got to her suite, a bellhop said she had gone to the opera."

"Shame."

"Tell me about it. She had borrowed a few possessions of mine last week and I came to pick them up. So, not wanting to waste the trip, I went in to have a look around. But while I'm busy inside, a repairman came in to fix a lamp. I politely tried to stay out of his way, but he sees me and gets angry. We start to have a ... misunderstanding."

"How could any dummy say a bad thing 'bout you, 'Lina?"

"Ha. Thanks, Johnny. I guess from his point of view, I looked like some kind of trespasser."

"Ooch. Sounds like rotten luck."

"So, thinking discretion is the better part of valor, I decided to just turn tail and leave." She sighed dramatically and took another sip of coffee.

"Then you came here?"

"Well ... not quite. This blockhead was all wet. He chased me into the lobby where the hotel was setting up some policeman's retirement ball. About twenty coppers saw us having a tussle. I almost managed to slip into a receptions office when-"

Before she could finish, the bell on the door interrupted her.

A large man in a hat and frayed trench coat entered the diner, his collar turned up and his shoulders hunched against the bitter December wind. The man shivered and took in his surroundings. He had pale skin and a hangdog look about him.

John turned to the newcomer and smiled. "Hi there! What can I get you?"

The man paused a moment before responding. His voice was soft and raspy despite his size.

"Coffee. Black."

John nodded jovially. "Sure thing, Mack. How's about I fix you with a bite to eat?"

The man paused again, staring at the ground. "What's your cheapest food?"

"I have some jelly danishes here. Raspberry, a real treat."

"Fine. One."

John nodded and turned to prepare the order. The man ambled over to a stool and sat down. There was stillness in the diner save for the wistful jazz of the scratchy radio. It occasionally cut in with Edward R. Morrow at Trafalgar Square: broadcasts about Luftwaffe firebombs over London. The stranger sat three stools away from Selina. He didn't eye her up or address her or even turn her way, but something about him made her uneasy. She tried to look him in the eye but his hat was pulled down low. In fact, the bulky man was so bent and motionless he almost looked asleep. She frowned and sipped her coffee, stealing discreet glances when she could.

A moment passed. There was a smoky scent in air.

Selina perked up. "Something's burning."

John sniffed the air and his eyes bulged. "Yeah, it's from the backroom!"

He hustled through the door behind the counter. As soon as the daring owner had left the room, the large man swiftly stood up and threw a few coins on the counter. Selina watched him suspiciously as he strode to the entrance and opened the front door. The bell chimed. As he walked out, the man tossed a tiny ball the size of a marble over his shoulder. It arced across the room and landed in Selina's empty cup. She glanced down and by the time she looked back up the front door had slammed shut in the wind.

Something was up.

Selina jumped to her feet and barreled out into the winter night. She looked left and right, but the dim street was empty. The man had already disappeared. She exhaled in frustration. Seeing her own breath, Selina recognized she lacked a coat and decided to head back inside.

She wasn't sure what just happened, but her heart had jumped tempo in a way no coffee could match. Her fingers started tapping a rhythm against her side. Her skin was electric.

Gotham had a nightlife you couldn't find anywhere else. It was scary and random and sometimes grotesque, but for the big shots that owned the night there was nothing quite like it. A girl could get addicted.

Now Selina's own nightlife had broken into her ... civilian life, for lack of a better term. That wasn't supposed to happen; it was time to find out why. She allowed herself a brief half-smile. This evening might be interesting after all.

Back inside, John was standing arms akimbo with a look of utter confusion. "I guess that guy left?"

Selina knew not mention the thing in the cup. Whatever it was, it was her business, and she didn't involve normal folk like Johnny in her business.

"Yeah. He just up and left. I tried to see where he was going but he disappeared."

John shrugged. "Gosh, some people, huh?"

"You said it. What was the smell in the back?"

"This." John reached into the pocket of his apron and pulled out a partially-melted candle. "Somebody lit this in the backroom. Didn't hurt anything either. It was just burning on the floor. Made a lot of smoke though; you wouldn't think so since it's so small."

Selina scrutinized the candle. Gears began to click in her mind. "Yeah, wouldn't think so."

"And it looks like our friend even paid 'fore he left. Didn't get his coffee or his danish. Wonder where he had to get to."

Selina stared into her cup. "Yeah, what a mystery. Say Johnny, I better get going myself." She covertly turned the cup so the small ball rolled into her purse. "Big day tomorrow, need some rest."

"So you drink coffee before bed? You didn't finish your story!"

She put on her gloves and smiled an apology. "Next time, I promise."

"Aw, fine. Go get your beauty sleep. And come see me again sometime. Ain't nobody entertains like you do. You know how lonely it gets 'round here."

Selina Kyle retrieved her coat and cap and from the rack. "You're a good man, John Quigley, go home and kiss that beautiful wife of yours."

"Sure thing. Goodnight Selina."

"Night, Johnny."

With that, Selina walked out into the first flakes of snow.

Four blocks later, she finally found a lamp bright enough to inspect her new possession. Heedless of the wind that blew her hair into a loose halo below her knit cap, she held the tiny ball up to her eye.

With the acuity of a jeweler, Selina realized she was holding a sphere of tightly-wrapped paper. She carefully unfolded it into a delicate sheet the size of a chewing gum foil. It simply read:

_Truce?_

_(Tentative)_

_Meet Midnight, Site of 2__nd__ Encounter_

Puzzled, she flipped the paper over and almost dropped it.

In hindsight, Selina realized she should have seen it coming. She knew plenty of shady characters who might want to pass her a cryptic message, and maybe, _maybe_ a handful could find her in her off-hours, but no one else could be so annoyingly subtle and yet so smugly theatrical in the process.

On the back of the paper was the simple outline of a bat.


	2. Prelude to a Meeting

All claims are DC. Please enjoy. Reviews humbly appreciated.

**Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold  
**

**Chapter 2: Prelude to a Meeting  
**

* * *

The night air was crisp. The sky rolled with heavy clouds. Two old friends sat on a shipping crate on a long pier. The first man's name was Homer. The second man's name was Joe. They weren't remarkable men, seeming and sounding like the typical working class Gothamites they were. Homer had an unkempt blonde mustache and a gruff attitude, looking something like a disapproving walrus. Joe was a timid, bespectacled mouse-of-a-man with a cleft palate and thinning hair. They seemed like the sort who picked garbage or tarred roads, which they were, and who could rarely claim ten bucks between them, which they couldn't.

Homer and Joe knew they weren't remarkable. Tonight they aimed to change that.

Moored to the pier was a majestic wooden sailing ship nearly two hundred feet long. It swayed gently in the strong wind. A dirty old plaque nearby announced:

_USS Gotham Bay_

_44-gun Frigate  
_

_Built: 1797, Decommissioned: 1851_

_Her crews fought courageously against the Barbary pirates and later the British Navy _

_in defense of the young nation. Captured the HMS Indies in 1812. Now permanently docked _

_as a floating museum under the management of the Dept. of the Navy _

_and the Gotham Board of Tourism. Public tours: Mon, Tues, Thurs from 9:00 - noon.  
_

_Please enjoy respectfully.  
_

Nailed to the plaque was a new sign in a different font:

**Warning!**

**USS Gotham Bay maintenance, supervision, and public tours **

**suspended until further notice due to budgetary concerns. **

**Do not vandalize. **

Far in the distance, a clock tower chimed. It was half an hour till midnight.

Homer rubbed his chin and stood up. "Whelp. Suppose it's about time. Ready with the kerosene?"

* * *

Twenty blocks away.

Historians judged that Gotham had fifteen waves of immigration since its settlement in 1654. Some of these groups practically defined the city; their neighborhoods were national landmarks: Germantown, Chinatown, Little Bucharest, or Old Shannon. Then there were the quieter groups, the still-sizable communities that never quite showed up in the movies or the guidebooks. They had the semi-formal boundaries that savvy locals used to give each other directions. But a few nationalities were so small that they didn't have even have streets, but were scattered in someone else's part of town. The smallest of these was the Hmong.

The Hmong people hailed from southern China and the Siamese peninsula. They were like the Jews or the Kurds in a way, a nation without a state, always at odds with the majority. Thousands were eager to leave their homeland after the flooding in '89, but like many great Gotham tales, their arrival was only made possible by the irresponsible decisions of strangers. Details were hazy, but the migration involved bribes to the Immigration Bureau by strikebreakers looking for scabs, faked orders to a diplomatic mission in Saigon, an affair with the wife of the Governor-General of French Indochina, and a seven hour game of whist.

However the Hmong got here, most Gothamites hadn't noticed they'd arrived. As a group they were next to invisible. About four hundred lived in Gotham City, working the canneries on the edges of Chinatown. They kept to themselves.

Well, the adults did anyway.

The adolescent boys of Chinatown still loved to pick on their neighbors, and the young Hmong didn't take kindly to that. The Hmong had one street gang, the Lucky Hats, median age fourteen, and woe betide any fool who stood in their way. As the area was Chinese, the Hats had no stomping grounds to call their own. Instead, they wandered in packs of eight or more delinquents, stealing produce and chasing stray dogs. This was fine in the summer and autumn, but even young scamps knew that you couldn't live outdoors in winter. No, they had to stay home or go to school. The gang dissolved in the cold. How dull.

But this year they weren't letting that happen without a fight.

* * *

Joe frowned and pulled a folded paper from his jacket. "I've an inkling this ain't a good idea, Homer."

"Hmph! And why's that?"

"Well, you heard the guys. Sure, this sounded like fun game and all, but a'lot of the teams have been pinched already. I don't think we're more clever then they were, Homer. Why jus' look at this." He pointed his finger down the paper. "Durham and Blakeley? Caught. Norton Jr.? Got his nose broke by a nightstick when he was caught. Olivetti and Cavour? Both caught. Cavour's got kids, ya know."

"I heard Van Wooten got away with it."

"Yeah, but his cousin's in blue. Reckon anybody can catch a lucky break when they got family in the precinct. And look'it the rest. The Murfreesboro Brothers? Caught. Old Man Smith? Nearly burned to a crisp, and then caught! What's to say we ain't going to the clink if we try this, Homer? This ain't some city bus or grocer's stand." He gestured to the priceless historical treasure floating in front of them. "I think people might notice."

"Bah, give me that." Homer snatched the paper from Joe's hands. "Look at this. A trolley car, a bagel shop, the north side of Bretton Park. Small potatoes, Joe! Last year's winner was a little cop station so far out of town it might as well have been Bludhaven. If we pull this off, not only is in the bag for this year, but no one will ever beat it. We'll be legends."

"Like the boat?"

"Yeah, and ain't that just appropriate? We're not some kids running around at night. Why, you could just about say we're doing the respectable thing! You know what we're going to do here, Joe?" He threw an arm around his partner's shoulders and waved a hand across the sky like he was writing their names in a brilliant marquee. "We're going to give this old ship a proper Viking funeral!"

Joe gave his friend a look. "Homer, what on God's green earth is a Vick-en funeral?"

Homer stuck out his chin and tugged at his coat lapels as he imagined a professor might. He was the most educated of the pair (dropping out of the fifth grade several days after Joe) and he felt this gave him eternal license as the brains of the team.

"It's just about the grandest thing you can do for a old corpse, believe you me."

"Where'd you hear such a thing?"

"I was walking through the lending library last week-"

"Since when are you in favor of any book-learning, Homer?"

"You hush, Joe."

"Oh I know, you wanted to see that librarian that comes in on Tuesdays, weren't it Homer?"

"I said hush, Joe!"

"The blonde one with the freckles, about yay tall."

Homer furrowed his mustache. "I'll knock you into this water right now if you don't hold your peace."

"She's a cutie."

"Joe!"

"Smart too. What was her name, Jolene? Jane? Something 'j'."

Homer raised his fist and Joe quickly shut up. Neither was a fighting man - by Gotham standards at any rate - but Homer was a tad more intimidating and Joe was a coward.

* * *

The Min Lee Marketplace was an abandoned building on the corner of Chinatown and adjacent to the townhouses where many of Gotham's Hmong lived. The building was once a furniture warehouse. When that venture failed, the site was bought by a local entrepreneur named Min Lee and became a sort of indoor bazaar for his community. At its peak, Min Lee's Marketplace was packed full of stalls carrying every craft and dish from the old country. It was a wall of eager noise, with a rapidity of bargaining to shame a stock exchange. The ginseng could be smelled for half a mile. Then competitors came, more and more sellers closed shop to work in the tin plant, and the Marketplace closed its doors. Now the Lucky Hats were looking for a roof over their heads. They figured that the Chinese clearly didn't need it anymore.

The Chinese boys thought differently. Chinatown had a vast ecosystem of gangs, and two of them considered the Min Lee Marketplace local territory: the Weaver Boys and the Golden Princes. Neither used the old husk for anything, which was why neither bothered to formally claim it yet, but they weren't about to let some Hmong trash plant a flag in their neck of the woods.

Like many youth gangs, the Lucky Hats, the Weaver Boys, and the Golden Princes had a sense of chivalry unknown to their adult counterparts. The fate of the building would be decided in a formal fight arranged by invitation. The wind was bitter outside, but indoors the air was all too still. In the center of the Marketplace was an empty yard of rotted wood flooring. On one end stood twelve Hmong boys. On the other stood twelve Chinese, six from each gang. The boys shifted nervously and eyed their rivals. They carried sticks and rocks and bats. Knives and pipes were forbidden. A ring of bright lamps on poles lit the edges of the combat zone.

The taunts had already been traded. Now they waited. On the sidelines, a small Lucky Hat, nine years old and wheelchair-bound by polio, sat beside a small gong. He lifted a mallet as large as he was and swung.

* * *

"Right then. I was at the library for some nice reading like the gentleman and scholar I is when I saw this book about the Vikings."

"Did the cover have drawings of nudie women?"

Homer grinned. "Yeah."

Joe nodded sagely. "Well that's history books for you. Always with the old-time drawings of nudie women. Makes you reckon they hadn't invented blouses till the foundin' of America."

"Whelp. Makes sense ta me. Anywho, I opened it up and it was downright interesting. Joe, these Vikings lived like men ought to live! They ate what they wanted and drank when they wanted and showered as little as they wanted. If they ran out of food, they took it. When they argued, they didn't walk in front of some moldy judge, they had themselves a stabbing contest. And if all that got boring, they'd jump in a boat in steal stuff from England!"

"Sounds swell. And how about this funeral?"

"Well, when a Viking boss died-"

"Was he boss cause he won a lot of stabbing contests?"

"Maybe. Anyways, when a chief died, they'd have this fancy ritual, see? They'd bury all his nice clothes and weapons with him and slaughter some animals. Then one of his slave women would offer herself as…um…well that part ain't proper to modern gents so I won't share it."

"Aw."

"The important part is later they'd later dig up the grave and put the dead chief on a ship. Then they'd light the ship on fire and let it burn on the water, all classy-like."

"That's a Viking funeral?"

"Yep."

"And you want to give one to this here boat?"

"Yes sir."

"So you want to put this boat…on a boat…and light the boat-boat on fire?"

"Yes…no. It's not a perfect metter-four, okay? Heck, I ain't the poet larry-it. This ship's gonna burn. That's what I'm saying. We both knew that coming in."

"Well, I mean I, well that's to say, we, uh, we talked about it."

Homer frowned at Joe so hard his mustache shook. "You having second thoughts there Joe?"

"Well, now that we're here, I'm starting to-"

"Look, ya twit. You know as well as I do that we told the boys we was going set a fire here that ought to make the front page in Tokyo. We bragged and brayed, see? We puts our names on the line. That means something amongst gentlemen like us."

"Well, yes, um, well, fairly speaking Homer, you did the bragging. One could even suppose that the line-naming is on you."

"So you're a lawyer tonight, wise-guy? Well maybe I did do the bragging, but you sure didn't stop me. It's on both our hides now! We back down, we'll be squat! A laughingstock, I say."

"Uhh."

"Do you want to be a laughingstock, Joe?"

"Ne ... no."

"DO YOU?"

"NO. No, I don't Homer. I don't wanna be a laughing-anything."

"Then let's make like Vikings and set fire to this here priceless relic."

"Can we go back after and have a few drinks to forget this terrible decision?"

For the first time, Homer smiled. He patted Joe on the back with brotherly affection. "That's what the Vikings would have wanted, Joe."

* * *

At the resonant _GONGGG_ of the gong, the twenty-four boys screamed battle cries and ran forward.

A burst of sparks erupted in front of them.

_PHSSS_.

The boys slowed and looked around. Another two bombs hit the ground.

_PHSSS_. _PHSSS_.

The flashes were blinding like great firecrackers. As the boys regained the bearings, they saw a frightening black mass fall from above. The mass rose into the form of some sort of wicked man-beast, with horns and wings and bone-white eyes. He bellowed to the crowd.

"**EVERYONE GO HOME!**"

No boy moved. They weren't in the habit of reading the paper, and he was rarely seen in this part of town, so they didn't realize that they were witnessing the Batman. The beast repeated the instructions in Cantonese, Mandarin, and a butchering of what might have been a dialect of Hmong. The little gangsters looked at each other.

Suddenly, seized with the deadly enthusiasm known only to wild men and nine-year-olds, the small Lucky Hat in the wheelchair yelled a mighty battle cry and hit the gong again. Summoned as one, the twenty-four boys put aside their differences, lifted their weapons high, and rushed the Batman.

A few stones and bricks pelted his back and arms. One bounced off his forehead. That was annoying. His first priority was the swinging weapons. A moment before the first line of teenagers reached him, he threw down another flash bomb - _PHSSS_ - and leaped.

Tucking into a flip, he reached down and grabbed a baseball bat and a broom handle from their distracted owners. He landed in a crouch and swept three kids off their feet with the broom handle. Then they were on him. He tried to keep moving backwards, forcing as much of the mob as possible from surrounding him. They were hasty and unskilled; he blocked strike after strike in rapid succession. Whenever he could force an opening, he tossed his current weapon to the side and stole the next one from the nearest assailant. In this manner he soon disarmed the pack without throwing a punch. But still the wild boys jumped at him. Casually clotheslining two who tried to ambush from the sides, Batman turned and threw his current club, a table leg, straight into the gong.

_GOOOONNNGGG_.

For some reason he expected this to end the fight. It did not. Seeing an opening, four bodies landed on his back, dropping fists on his head and neck. He finally tripped, and the mob piled on. The force was crushing. This called for a change in strategy. Rolling to his side, the man struggled to push away the mass on top of him. After a minute of shoves and elbows, he managed to rise to his feet and sprinted away. He ran until he reached the cold market stalls crowded near the walls.

The gangs followed. Batman waited until most had gotten close and threw three small blades above their heads. Above them were the vast market awnings, drooping expanses of colorful fabric as large and heavy as sails. The three blades cut three carefully chosen cords holding several awnings up. They fell.

In a moment, fifteen of the crazed teenagers were caught under what felt like a circus tent. The remainder who were left standing hesitated and looked at each other. The fearsome stranger brandished another three throwing blades and glared at them. They squealed and ran away.

As the trapped gangsters tried to free themselves, he walked over to the kid in the wheelchair. The kid looked at him coolly, holding out his mallet like a sword.

"**You know English?**"

The boy nodded. "Yes."

Batman pointed at the pile behind him "**Tell them that either everyone learns to share, or no gets to use this building. Understand?**"

The boy considered this.

"**If they don't, I'll hear about it, and I won't be so nice the next time.**"

The small child frowned. "Okay, fine."

Batman grunted approvingly and turned away. The boy spoke up.

"You're a very mean man."

Batman offered a look back before he disappeared into the shadows.

"**I know.**"

* * *

Lit only by the nearly-obscured moon, the men fastened a gangplank and hefted many cans of kerosene onto the deck of the ship. Then they opened the cans and proceeded to pour them along the wooden deck until much of the surface was slick. Then they poured some down into the hold and on the mast and ropes and every other miscellaneous fixture they could reach. The first snowflakes of the season began to fall as they worked. Using the final can, they made a trail of kerosene down the gangplank and several yards onto the pier.

Joe produced a long match. Both men starred reverently at the wooden ship from their place on the pier. It was silhouetted by moon glow through the clouds and looked very graceful. Airy snowflakes settled around them.

Joe faced his friend. "Whelp. I guess this is it."

Homer nodded and said in a loud voice, "Off to the halls of Valhalla, noble ship."

Joe lit the match and held it aloft. He let go.

Like a cobra strike, a black-gloved hand reached over his shoulder and caught the falling match, pinching out the flame and casting them again in the shade of night. Surprised and perplexed, Joe turned around ...

... and found himself inches away from the nightmarish visage of _the Batman_! The fearsome figure of myth appeared ghostly, nearly a silhouette despite how close he stood. But they had no trouble seeing the milky pits of his eyes. Batman's wrathful gaze was personal and unrelenting. His cape rippled in the wind like the wings of a demon.

Joe and Homer screamed and fell backwards off the pier.

As they splashed in the frigid water, Batman idly tossed the spent match and inspected the empty kerosene can. After a moment he brushed some snow off his shoulder and begrudgingly pulled the men back onto the platform.

They collapsed into the fetal position, pale and shivering rapidly. Batman crouched above them. "**I'm busy tonight, but you'll freeze to death if you don't leave. Do we have an understanding?**"

Homer nodded awkwardly as he convulsed. Batman stood and turned away.

"**Dry off. There's a gas station half a block north. Do not waste my attention again.**"

Joe lifted himself into a crawl and tugged feebly at Batman's cape. "How'da ... how ... " he spit out some water. "How did you know we were here?"

Batman gazed down in silence.

Joe managed to slur together another sentence. "Can you read my thoughts?"

Batman grabbed Joe's jacket and lifted him to his feet. Joe coughed and his eyes struggled to focus. The Dark Knight leaned forward and whispered in Joe's ear,

"**No, Joesph Leroy Kendell, I can read your _soul_.**"

Batman let go and swiftly left the pier. He vaulted the fence at the edge of the docks and was gone. Within minutes, he had scaled a nearby townhouse and was leaping and climbing away.

* * *

The World's Greatest Detective found this recent rash of first-time arsonists incredibly frustrating. It was some sort of contest, but the details were nonsensical and their motives were a mystery. There was surely some hidden sponsor, maybe a mob insurance scam, maybe even a cult, but without more evidence he was stuck. The really irritating part was that those two idiots were the first he caught red-handed and he didn't even have time to question them. Arsonists, by the nature of their crime, were abominably hard to find and prosecute, even dumb amateurs. Without a lucky break, there wouldn't be more evidence until someone lit another match.

Even with so little to go on, he would have loved nothing more than a few quiet hours to mull over the facts and hunt down leads. But Batman was denied even this modest pleasure. He had more pressing emergencies. Much to his consternation, instead of focusing on single problems and fixing them completely, on nights like this he was forced to run around and put out fires ...

Batman mentally paused. He scowled at the unintended joke.

In moments of frustration and doubt, he often felt all his training and planning were for naught. He still ran the jagged edge of disaster far too often.

For example, Batman had an excellent sense of time. He could be left blindfolded in a cell for days and his inner clock would stay keen to within minutes of a watch. Yet that hard-won ability to tell time hadn't saved the Caped Crusader from being very, very late.

He couldn't afford to be late tonight. This was a gravely important mission. True, none of his missions were _unimportant_, per se (only the Stalins and Luthors of the world could be that casual about affecting lives), but most didn't threaten his personal status quo.

For the moment he was a vigilante; an outlaw with scant friends and a standing arrest warrant. He could tolerate that. But now he approached a strange new world; one wrong move and he risked becoming an enemy of the state. The full persecution of a federal manhunt might make life a _little_ less tolerable.

If the Dark Knight were psychologically capable of self-pity, he would laugh at how skewed his standards were that the current manhunt was the "comfy" one. Regardless, he had to reach his meeting. It would be the most delicate step of the operation. Showing up late might scare off the ... human element. That would be unacceptable.

Breathing deeper, he pushed his muscles into a moderate burn that he knew from experience marked the lower threshold of muscle failure. Another half hour at this pace and connective tissue would start to rip. Yet the real danger was the snow-slick roofs he hopped and sprinted across.

It didn't matter. He kept running.

* * *

For years to come, Joe would live in humbled awe at the supernatural menace of the Bat. He would never learn that Batman stood silently behind him on that pier for nearly a minute before revealing himself, the better to catch incriminating small talk. During this skulk, Batman idly picked Joe's wallet and read the name off his driver's license out of investigative habit. The rest was improvisation.


	3. Cold Feet

All claims are DC. Please enjoy. Reviews humbly appreciated.

**Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold  
**

**Chapter 3: Cold Feet**

* * *

The King Leopold Academy of Arts was the city's smallest college in both enrollment and real estate. With just over three hundred undergraduates, the campus was simply a line of four squat brick buildings on Greensborough Lane, the mythically boring center of Makepeace Hill. Given such a humble position, it was perennially amusing to locals that King Leo (as the students called it) claimed more famous alumni than any three schools in the city combined. Sure, Gotham University had plenty of lawyers and scientists and other fancy educated types, but neither could offer the one group that King Leo churned out by the dozen: movie stars!

Since its founding, the Academy had been known for painters first, sculptors second, and thespians a very distant third. Then by some cosmic bolt of foresight, in 1905 the theater department bought one of Edison's new motion picture cameras. Trained actors at the time thought film roles had the artistic merit of carnival sideshows, which they usually were, but one of the younger professors decided to throw off tradition and offer a course with it anyway. Naturally, the least ambitious students filled this new class, fascinated with the novel machine and not expecting to get beyond cheap vaudeville stages anyhow.

Those slackers would have been right (and forgotten), except that their hobby soon turned into a national obsession. Huge crowds flooded nickelodeons in every city, and a new crop of studios sprouted up to satisfy them. These studios realized that to sell tickets they needed fresh ideas and trained directors. To their pleasant bafflement, they discovered a pool of young artists in Gotham who not only knew how to use a camera and edit celluloid but were at the forefront of the medium's experimental techniques (or, as the students called it, goofing off with class equipment). Naturally, these budding cinematographers were more than happy to cast their friends from acting class in their films. It was for this reason above all others that, by the late 1920s, Gotham City was the undisputed center of East Coast filmmaking.

The Academy's old guard, the School of Painting, reacted to their changing fortunes with mixed feelings. Donations from famous new alumni expanded its budget as quickly as they shattered its relative prestige. Prestige was quite important among departments; there were countless perks and privileges lavished on professors who could put the Academy on the map. This used to be the School of Painting, but now Acting was the pretty young debutante and Painting seemed like the dowdy spinster whose day in the sun had passed. It was time for a re-branding.

* * *

Fifteen months ago.

In the summer and fall of 1939, the Dean of Painting bet his entire budget (and whatever he could beg or borrow) on a big gamble. The Roaring Twenties had created a breed of fresh millionaires whose children were just reaching college age. These new money households craved respectability and thought it would be dandy to have their sons study the arts between bouts of yachting and polo. No art school was marketing to them yet, still focused on their old Establishment patrons. But how would the Dean catch their eye? Well, he figured, the nouveau riche tended to love shiny things, so he would stand out by offering the most shiny things of all!

For months, the Painting Center was surrounded by moving vans and construction crews. There were crystal chandeliers and uniformed doormen and marble bathrooms. Lunch was catered by an on-site chef. Gallons of the finest paints and inks lined the storage closets. But the grandest luxury of them all was the new Rotation of the Classics: twice a month the school rented a different painting from an array of museums and private collections to hang in a classroom for study. The professors were trained curators and ensured that each masterpiece was protected from the environment.

Unfortunately, the professors were not trained security and did not ensure that each masterpiece was protected from Catwoman. The Leading Lady of Larceny enjoyed outwitting typical museum safeguards, so when she heard in late September that a line of famous paintings were being shown at some school that _didn't even bother _with typical museum safeguards, she knew it was her solemn duty to teach them a lesson in hubris.

Or maybe just a fun way to spend a Thursday. Catwoman wasn't the crusading type.

So she pulled on the chic violet bodysuit, black gloves, and black boots. After a yawn-inducingly easy surveillance and infiltration, she made it into the classroom where the treasure was kept (one of the less popular Brugghens), stretched out some acid-free paper, and proceeded to work her magic. The art was off the wall and nearly packed when **_he_** showed up.

* * *

They had met once before, back in June that year (a story for another day). And what a rush! Tactically, that evening had been a draw, but Catwoman called it a win for the novelty alone. No one had heard of him yet, this hulking figure of the dark with his frown and his cape. She was fascinated.

And her interest only grew the more she heard. It took weeks for the babbled individual sightings to mix into a coherent myth. But by September he had earned quite a lurid reputation amongst night types like herself. Given their respective habits, she was sure they would see each other again sooner or later. She might even call their dynamic a game of cat-and-mouse except that she still had her dignity.

But their second confrontation was a big disappointment: brief, nonviolent, and frankly kind of boring (by her fell-off-the-end-of-the-bell-curve standards). It was over before it began.

She blamed the picture. Padding and covering that frame was a slow process; she refused to be one of those amateur hacks who just roll the canvas into a cardboard tube. Maybe she would have gotten away in time if she had cut a few corners.

When she glanced up and saw that trademark silhouette on the wall, Catwoman knew an easy escape was out of the question. Even if the painting was fully packed, the real challenge was carrying it. Going up a rope, through a window, and down an ivy trellis was challenging alone, but it was a fantasy when the Bat could ruin it by standing in her way.

Her first instinct was to pick a fight, but the room was small and cluttered. Her biggest weapon on Batman was agility (at least when it came to fisticuffs), and there was simply no space for a good brawl. Plus, if things got hot and heavy at this range someone might step on the painting. The only safe ending would be to knock him out with one hit. Kapow!

But you didn't just knockout the Batman.

She wasn't being modest. Some people wrote poetry, some people built birdhouses, and the Batman won fights. Period. He had been on the scene long enough that everybody knew that, and the ones that refused to get the message were learning real quick. Maybe she'd get lucky (she certainly had moves of her own), but a lady didn't get far in the felony business by taking dumb risks.

So it was checkmate. She cared too much about the art to escalate the confrontation. As for His Majesty, King Frownington, his view on art - like everything else about him - was a mystery. He did seem to care about fragile property and didn't interrupt as she hung the frame again. With a final adjustment, she let go of the painting and turned around. Deep down, she felt wary like an old gunslinger, but Catwoman was Catwoman. She put on a smile and broke the ice.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He stared impassively at her for a long moment. His eyes were hidden like usual, but there was a very strange tilt to his face, an awkward tenseness about him. This was only their second meeting, but she had a feeling hesitation wasn't normally an issue for him.

It certainly wasn't for her. She planted a jaunty hand on her hip and stepped forward. "Batman, right? I don't think we were properly introduced last time."

Silence. More staring. His shoulder twitched. She took another step. "Cat got your tongue?"

No smile. He gave her a final appraisal then, to her stunned bafflement, stepped aside.

"**Don't come back**."

Catwoman could only blink.

_... What? _

She knew the rumors - Batman definitely wasn't in the habit of letting criminals walk. So what did this mean? Was he only in it for the challenge? Was this a reward for cooperating? Did he forget who she was? Was she hallucinating? Nevertheless, Catwoman was never one to waste a good thing with second-guessing. She quietly picked up her gear, strode past him, and left.

She had no idea what it meant, and he never simply let her go again (not that he ever caught her, of course, but she definitely had to earn her future escapes). For days afterward, Catwoman mulled over the memory. She decided a few things:

1. No paintings for awhile. Too awkward. Catwoman is the human embodiment of nimbleness, not a Laurel & Hardy skit.

2. Batman didn't swoop down on people to hurt them; he swooped down on people to make sure they followed the rules. His rules. Then he usually hurt them.

3. She wouldn't rest until she retraced every stinking step she made in the past month and figured out HOW THE HELL he tracked her there!

4. Batman was human. Almost no one else thought so yet, but she was certain. Betting odds, at least. He was just a screwy weirdo in a mask, no matter what the rumors said. He put his Bat-pants on one leg at a time like anyone else (or for all she knew, he somehow karate-flipped into both simultaneously, but again, weirdo).

* * *

Fifteen months later.

Like last time, it was a piece of cake breaking into the Academy of Arts. She walked through the dark and quiet of the painting classroom, her calf-high boots the only muffled sound in the stillness. Shafts of weak moonlight painted stripes on the floor. Snowflakes gently collected along the bottoms of the windows.

The room hadn't changed much, except that there was no masterpiece on the wall this time. Her near-theft had gone undiscovered, but the program was shut down a few months later when some other punk nabbed a Copley.

That strange second meeting had been nearly a year ago. Throughout all her future encounters with the uncompromising Dark Knight, it had always stuck out, never making sense. She looked again at her tiny note.

_Truce?_

_(Tentative)_

_Meet Midnight, Site of 2nd Encounter_

Why had he asked her here? This was a pretty good place for a meeting, Catwoman had to admit. Batman obviously didn't want to reveal a specific location in case someone else saw the note; he was limited to obliquely referencing a prior rendezvous. Yet out of that short list, he managed to choose the closest, warmest, and most likely to stay empty. It was savvy trade-craft and a nice gesture.

Or maybe he just picked a low number in case she hadn't kept count.

Catwoman liked to pretend she had a gift for reading people, and usually that was true, but he was a tough nut to crack sometimes ... or all the time. What could he possibly want to talk about?

She sat on the professor's desk and idly swung her legs.

Off in the distance, the bells of Makepeace Tower rang. It was midnight. She had been waiting for nine minutes. This little college was relatively safe, sure, but the thief in her was getting itchy. The trick to trespassing was speed and stealth, not sitting on one's dainty hiney out in the open. That was trouble served up on a platter.

Yeah, and being caught in this room would be a lot of trouble.

...

Wait.

...

What if this was a trap?

She realized with growing unease that the room would be a good choice for that too. It was small; agility wouldn't help much. It was empty; there were no cavities to hide in and no platforms to climb. She didn't see anything that would make a good weapon. Collateral damage wouldn't be a concern, it was just some mediocre paintings from spoiled rich kids. And worst of all, the escape routes were uncomfortably limited: just a single door and some hard-to-reach windows. This was why she was cornered so easily the first time.

Of course! That night here had been his only real win against her. What if he was reusing an old success story from the Bat-playbook?

And why hadn't she realized that ten minutes ago?

That slimeball!

She inhaled and exhaled, trying to calm down. Only rookies let their nerves control them in the field. The nation's jails were filled with rookies. No, this was a time to think.

Would Batman set a trap?

Sure, Batman loved traps. At least he loved setting them. He set them all the time. But his traps were always temporary and straightforward: tying a cord between two lampposts so some fat bank robbers tripped. His traps were more like a game warden, less like a serial killer. He wouldn't lure someone to an ambush hours ahead of time. And she wasn't being a menace to society, she was having coffee! Would he set a trap like that with no provocation? And was he brazen enough to INVITE her to it?

That didn't sound like his style at all. If he wanted to arrest someone when their guard was down, he didn't deceive them with a disguise and a note, he dived through a skylight and kicked them in the face. And even if he wanted to trick her, why now? He had a year of opportunities. Catwoman couldn't remember doing anything particularly unwholesome recently. They hadn't even seen each other in weeks.

Still, there were certain rules of thumb you had to use with the Dark Knight. The Gotham underworld's favorite pastime was sharing their Bat-myths, and in those hundreds of stories there were two reoccurring lessons:

First, the Bat could hold a grudge like nobody's business.

Second, one way or another he always had a surprise.

Well, Catwoman was no illiterate leg-breaker. Batman didn't surprise her. At least he didn't "always" surprise her ...

Great.

She had the feeling in her gut that coming here might have been a bad idea. The other trick to trespassing was that you follow your gut. It had served her well. Catwoman pushed onto her feet and headed for the fractionally-open window where her rope hung.

Before she could cross the room, the door creaked open.


	4. Détente

All claims are DC. Please enjoy. Reviews humbly appreciated.

Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold

Chapter 4: Détente

* * *

Gotham City was a tough place to live. It smelled near the mills and the weather gave Londoners depression. New buildings tended to cut corners after the planning commission went on strike - little details like fire escapes and termite nests. But the great millstone around the neck of the city was the people, all the masses of people, the great rancid melting pot. After the sixth or seventh mugging, a resident grew edgy when it came to strangers. You had to keep a little paranoia on the coat stand. And if you had any simmering biases when you arrived - against Poles or Irish or Cubans or milkmen or dockworkers or cops or teenagers or the old or the rich or the homeless or whichever category you looked askance at - Gotham had a way of justifying that grudge with real examples of bad behavior.

Funnily enough, the brochures choose to advertise the city's diversity; they said a visitor could find just about any kind of person within twenty blocks if he looked hard enough. Unlike a lot of bombast farted out by the Board of Tourism, the locals agreed.

Indeed, a traveler with a keen eye for the streets could find all sorts of rare treasures of humanity. Outside Lowenbaum Department Store was a homeless man whose nose had been bitten off by a weasel who tried to convince passersby that he was an exiled Spanish prince. In the Narrows was a mother from Missouri who fed her ten kids by jumping in front of fancy cars to win negligence lawsuits. On 110st Street lived a respected dentist from Mumbai with constant bruises for having a funny accent and dark skin. In a Charlotte Grove high-rise lived a malpractice lawyer who got his kicks by hitting poor people with his car. And somewhere around Little Bucharest was an exiled Spanish prince.

So yes, you could find any kind of person in Gotham if you looked hard enough.

The unspoken corollary? They could also find you.

It surprised no one that natives could be pretty paranoid.

However, above all the paranoia there were still a few things that brought all red-blooded Gothamites together: cheering on a Rogues home game, insulting Bludhaven, dreaming about getting on the year-long reservation list for d'Annunzio's, locking their doors at night, and making fun of tourists.

Given the typical Gotham affection for gallows humor, the most popular way to mock a tourist was to wait for them to ask about the city's infamous nightlife and then lie until the tourist called bluff. The winner was the local who got away with the most ludicrous fib.

The Penguin? Polar explorer deformed and driven to greed by severe frostbite.

The Washington's Birthday Subway Siege? Failed alien invasion.

Poison Ivy? Marketing gimmick by the flower cartels to seem edgy and seductive.

Frankly, it was an easy game. Tourists inevitably had something to ask and the facts were hazy if they existed at all (using the Joker was considered cheating). For example, one of the most common questions was,

"How do the celebrity criminals of Gotham survive such frequent danger?"

Or as Gothamites heard it, "Dang! How dun those costume boys what wit all them brain dis-functions last a henpecked night fire'n weapons fro' here yonder?" (the average Gothamite assumed the rest of America spoke a butchered mix of Appalachian and infant.)

Of course, no regular Joe really knew how the city's famed felons kept waking up on the friendly side of the dirt. Who could explain the astonishing longevity of a group whose insurance premiums rivaled the gross income of Denmark?

Naturally, this ignorance didn't stop anyone from guessing; Most of the theories would embarrass a drunken tabloid editor. In truth, their trick was mundane (as opposed to their _tricks_, which were luridly ridiculous). To start with, the rogues possessed an enormous lifetime supply of luck. They all had exceptional cunning. Keen street smarts were vital. A robust immune system surely helped; you couldn't wait in the hospital all season for your bones to knit. They all had a natural intimidation factor, the gift to freeze a crowd with a sneer. Some said it was in the eyes, some in the way they walked. Finally, and perhaps the most vitally of all, each possessed phenomenal instincts.

* * *

It was because of those great instincts that Catwoman was leaping into a back-flip the moment the old door began to move. She landed in a crouch atop an ugly marble bust of Andrew Jackson, claws out and eyes trained on the entrance.

The door opened and Batman walked through. He stepped inside and looked up at her, not commenting on her obvious attack stance.

He waited.

She glared back, curiosity and confusion slowly eroding her pulsing battle-rage.

A gust of wind rattled the windows.

She remembered that a staring contest with Batman was like trying to out-wait a glacier. She would have to make the first move. Claws still out, Catwoman gently cleared her throat and spoke across the room. "Hi."

He nodded a micrometer. She wouldn't have noticed in the dark except that those ears made every head motion pretty obvious. "Catwoman."

Not the friendliest greeting, but his first words tended to be accusations, so she took it as an olive branch. She hopped off the bust and took a few steps forward. "You know, I've never seen you come through a front door." She stopped five paces away, retracted the claws, and crossed her arms. "So I guess this isn't a trap."

He frowned in what seemed like sincere confusion and swiftly looked around the room.

"You think I asked you here because of the close confines."

She nodded. "And the lack of nice handholds."

"The single entrance-"

"-and the raised windows." they both added simultaneously.

He paused and gave a grunt of agreement. "A misunderstanding."

"I'm disappointed." She tossed the crumpled note he gave her at the coffee shop. It bounced off his chest and he caught it. "If anyone's had practice explaining themselves in eight words, it's you."

Batman's eyes hardened at the implied jest, but he said nothing. Catwoman fiercely debated asking if there was any significance in bringing her to the one place he ever managed to corner her (as much as she hated to admit that out loud) and instead let her go, and also what the hell that meant, the cryptic jerk.

She took a subtle tack. "I don't suppose you picked you picked this place for the fond memories."

He paused a moment. "The message had to be discreet. We both knew this site; it was least likely to be interrupted. That's all."

So he was just smart at picking meetings ... unless he was lying. She covered her scrutiny with a quip. "Or maybe you just picked a low number in case I lost count."

He looked at her impassively. "I have full confidence in your ability to count."

Catwoman rolled her eyes; it had sounded funnier in her head. _Whatever_, if this was still some absurdly-elaborate trap, she would deal with it. She turned and walked into the middle of the brightest beam of moonlight and gestured for him to follow, which Batman slowly did. They faced each other, now both easily visible.

"Let's try this again." She laid a hand over her mouth in fake astonishment. "My, if it isn't my favorite caped busybody. Did you ask me here to waltz a little? Maybe chat about the weather? How's your Christmas shopping?"

"I'm here to make a request."

"Seeing as how you've done nothing but try to make my life easier, why not?" She relished opening a few buckets of sarcasm. "What kind of favor are you looking for?"

"I came to negotiate the employment of your expertise for a supra-legal operation."

Catwoman cocked an eyebrow. "Do what?"

Batman frowned and repeated himself in a lower voice, "I requested your attention tonight because I wish to discuss the requisition of your particular ... skill set."

She grinned sardonically and tilted her head in mock confusion. "Pardon?"

Batman muttered again, so low that he was inaudible.

Catwoman leaned forward and cupped an ear, "Sorry, not used to hearing more than three syllables out of you."

Batman closed his eyes and breathed in a wintry dose of humility. He reluctantly enunciated, "Catwoman, there's a task I can't do alone. It's vital. I need your help."

Catwoman's mouth dropped in surprise, eyes expanding in luminous amusement. Then her gape lifted into a too-wide smile, a schoolgirl hearing the year's most scandalous gossip.

Batman forced his jaw shut so hard his teeth ground. Catwoman's satisfaction was annoying; he fiercely hated admitting weakness, especially to _her ... _insofar_ a_s she was a context of the criminal element, of course.

He held his tongue because the businessman in him recognized an opportunity. His biggest hurdle tonight would be crossing their gulf of mistrust, but she was smiling at him. In mockery, granted, but still a smile. If he didn't do anything stupid, he may have just found his bridge.

"So _you_ need _my_ help, huh? Just like that?" Catwoman keep grinning but her tone was cautious, investigative.

His instinct said to get mean and righteous; that's how he usually motivated people. But the actor in him knew Catwoman had seen his Personification of Vengeance shtick (as she might call it) far to often. He had to go past his comfort zone. Of course, Batman's comfort zone rivaled the circumference of the Milky Way, so when the answer came, he found it both terrifying and terribly simple: it was time to be polite.

He stepped forward and looked deep into her eyes. "Catwoman, I need your help …... please."

Inches away from each other, there was a moment of silence.

Then she whistled. "Wow."

He couldn't tell if it was awe or mockery.

Batman kept the apprehension out of his tone. "Well?"

"I'm flattered, Batman," She cupped his chin affectionately, "but you'll forgive a girl if past encounters make her a _touch_ suspicious."

He stepped back and turned to the windows. "Than let me prove my sincerity. If the issue is money, you'll be handsomely paid."

"Well, you do know handsome, but I'm self-employed. Haven't taken a commission job in six months ..."

She walked a causal circle around him like she was judging a new car. When she reached his side, Catwoman leaned on his shoulder, plucked a gem out of her satchel, and held it up to the moonlight so they could both see.

"…and I doubt you can offer the kind of _scratch _I make anyway. Take this little prize. Do you have any idea how much a Suleiman emerald's worth?"

Batman resisted the urge to push her away or comment on the blatant larceny. "You're holding the Belgrade stone, third-smallest of the original Suleiman quartet but the only one that Napoleon the Third's niece didn't cut her initials into. It's about nine hundred dollars with your usual gem fence. Wait a month and you might ransom it back to the museum for a thousand and a quarter."

"Of course you do." Catwoman rolled her eyes and put away the gem. "Dare I ask how you keep learning about my fences?"

He ignored the question and faced her again. "Help me and I can offer one and a half thousand for one night's work: no caped busybodies in your way, payment in cash."

He couldn't tell whether it was the "caped busybodies" or "payment in cash", but as he spoke her features lit up with sudden interest.

"Well, well. Fifteen hundred, huh? Been pickin' pockets off all those gangsters you beat up?" She paced away and tapped her lips, a bargainer's glint in her eye. "Alright, let's assume you can get the money, what's the pitch? Saving kittens from trees?"

He gave a dry look. She guessed it was the closest he got to a smile and called it a win. "No. Do you actually think I do that?"

"When you're not chasing after me that is, but I suppose everybody needs a hobby."

"I don't have hobbies."

"That's sad. What's the gig?"

"It's well-suited to your habits, though the environment's very different from your usual targets."

"You didn't answer my question, Batman."

"Fine."

Batman held out a dim photograph of a heavy door handle. There was a combination padlock on the latch constraining the handle and a large deadbolt above it.

"Here's the crux of the job. Can you open this?"

Catwoman took the photo and pulled a very small flashlight from inside her sleeve. Batman started to describe the picture, but Catwoman held out a finger and shushed him. He frowned but stopped talking.

She squinted at it for a brief moment, then turned off her light and nodded. "Yes, I can open this."

"How quickly?"

"Am I standing or hanging inverted?"

"Standing."

"Is there a lot of noise near the door?"

"Typical for a wilderness area. Wind. Footsteps. Possibly engines running nearby."

"Hmm. The padlock's the real challenge. I might crack the combination in about thirty-five seconds. Fifty at most. Depends."

"And the deadbolt?"

"Pff, this deadbolt's easy: five-pin, basic catalog model. Under seven seconds, no problem. Under four if it's not rusted."

"Seven seconds? Implausible."

"Implausible is you never tripping over that cape. Keep in mind, I play with bank safes. I can handle little deadbolt locks in my sleep," she poked him in the chest, "Now, assuming that's fast enough for you, where's your fifteen hundred dollar door?"

"I'd like to explain the story first."

"Oh?"

"You deserve to understand the ... gravity of the situation." He noticed the puzzled look on her face. "Problem?"

"Well, that's surprisingly thoughtful for an employer in this line of work."

He gave a modest head-tilt. "Fair warning, it may be unsettling."

"I'm a big girl, Batman. What's the story?"

He coughed primly into his fist. Batman's dark baritone suddenly turned less harsh. She noted that he almost sounded like a person, richer and using more full sentences. Catwoman wondered if this was how he normally talked when he wasn't yelling at psychopaths or splendid cat burglars.

"Since early November, I've been aware of an extensive ring of corpse thieves working in Gotham. They've stayed mostly unnoticed by targeting the unidentified deceased. The city morgues process an average of three unclaimed bodies a day, and this rate triples in winter. Their victims, usually the homeless, die with no will or relatives. The thieves have been entering the morgues with fake identities and taking these unclaimed cadavers soon after they're found, usually within a day of their arrival and cursory autopsy."

Catwoman gave a look of concern and disgust. "Why didn't you shut this group down in November?"

He frowned. "I've been busy."

She looked at him incredulously. "Really? Too busy for corpse thieves?"

"Yes." he said stiffly.

"Corpse thieves!"

"There are other considerations for-"

"You've been running after pickpockets for a month when somebody's stealing bodies?"

He gave her a meaningful glare, "I respect the dead, but I protect the living. Bodies or not, the streets are desperate. Neighbors are mugging each other for food and propane! But I guess that variety of petty crime is beneath your interest."

"Hold on, I didn't mean to-"

He raised his voice over her. "**I've seen stickups over children's gifts! Vagrants are fighting to the death tonight over warm places to sleep. Half the cops won't leave their cars if it drops below twenty. The road crews are in the pocket**-"

Catwoman held up her hands and nearly yelled, "Stop! Alright! Fine, far be it from me to question your almighty priorities," she pointed a finger at him, "but unless you want me to walk away right now, don't you dare talk to me like I'm some heartless-" Batman almost added "thief" but kept his mouth shut. "-some heartless, privileged hedonist."

They eyed each other with bitter intensity. Under his cape, Batman thumbed the edge of a flash pellet. Catwoman discretely palmed the handle of her whip. It felt like old times.

But this time, neither moved. The wind rattled the windows.

_Idiot_, Bataman berated himself, _provoked with one irrelevant criticism_. This was why he didn't seek allies. Now the night was ruined. A shame, but he had other contingencies without her; they just happened to be a lot more dangerous. He would have called this a disappointment but frankly it lasted longer than he had expected. Regardless, it was time to disengage. Ready to counter her inevitable strike, he idly considered an escape route.

But seconds passed and the attack didn't come. This was so amazing that Batman stopped his tactical planning and actually looked at her. Catwoman was clearly upset, a mix of wounded pride and ... dejection? Whatever it was, it wasn't hostility. She hadn't issued a threat, just a demand for respect. He only heard a threat because he was so used to hearing them.

Batman muttered internally. So they were _both_ acting out of habit. _Were they just a pair of maladjusted pubescents_?

Surely his city was doomed.

He let out a breath and stood down. Recalling every lesson he knew on acting contrite (there weren't many), Batman stared at the floor. "I don't think of you as privileged. Or a hedonist. And I wouldn't have come here if I thought you were heartless."

She stared at him, forceful but undecided, a loose stick-shift hovering between third and neutral. Finally, she nodded. "I guess I accept your apology. I was just a little surprised grave-robbing was a problem these days," she shrugged, "or this century."

Catwoman tried to play it cool, but Batman could see what had stayed her hand. There was interest in her face; she was eager to hear the rest of the story.

Catwoman leaned against an easel and moved an errant lock of hair from over her eye. "So you've been too busy to stop the body snatchers. What's changed?"

"They've escalated. Three nights ago, a homeless couple: Wendell and Alice Dupree, were smothered in their sleep behind the 8th Street Train Station at roughly eleven o'clock. According to the coroner's report, the bodies were discovered by an anonymous bystander within ten minutes of their death. They were processed at the morgue less than half an hour later and the bodies disappeared shortly after midnight." He paused and looked her in the eye. "The odds of a corpse being found so quickly after death are slim-"

"-But the reaction time of the municipal services involved is unprecedented. So the coroners were in on it. It was staged."

Batman nodded. "I already knew morgue technicians had to be passively complicit, but this suggests a larger conspiracy. The prior thefts occurred long after their respective cadavers were discovered, suggesting the thieves didn't know the deaths until the morgue reported them. In other words, crimes of opportunity."

"Like vultures."

He nodded again. "But the thieves somehow knew just when the Duprees would arrive; the murders were either performed or paid for by the thieves themselves."

"Then go rough up some morgue technicians, find the thieves, and take them to the cops."

"It's not that simple."

"Why?"

"I haven't been the only one aware of these thefts. Other morgue employees have tried to involve the authorities, but every investigation gets stonewalled. Several of the whistle-blowers have been fired. Someone exceptionally powerful is protecting these conspirators. If I harass the drones at the bottom, the leader will see me coming and hide or retaliate. I need to destroy the program from the top."

"Do you have any idea who that powerful someone is?"

"Perhaps. Once I heard about the murders, I found evidence that the thieves carried the two cadavers away in a refrigerated truck that left the city heading northwest."

"Then they could be anywhere."

"Fortunately, a Gotham Turnpike operator fifty-nine miles upstate remembered seeing an ice truck pass through early the following morning. He said the truck was memorable because the driver tried to avoid paying the toll, claiming 'military business' and showing War Department papers."

"The War Department? Why does the Army want fresh corpses so bad they're willing to kill Americans to get them?"

"I don't know." He paused and then spoke very carefully. "The possibilities are deeply troubling."

"Isn't this just another corruption case? You've taken on the government before."

"I've stopped city officials. Legislators. Military law is different. I'm not sure how far up the chain of command this murder was approved, let alone what officer runs the program. The Army's been mobilizing since July. Washington has granted certain projects ... remarkable autonomy." She spied in his stony visage about one-fifth of what most people called dismay. "Catwoman, I can't begin to speculate what these conspirators are capable of."

A mouse ran across the floor and disappeared into the wall. She gave him a strange, uncomfortable look. It almost seemed like sympathy.

He frowned. Was she worried about him?

_No_, he decided, Batman never evoked sympathy. He must have misread her expression. She was simply concerned for her own safety. Such a massive abuse of authority might hurt anyone.

Again, Catwoman couldn't hear his internal monologue and broke the silence. "I think I'm starting to see where I come into this. The only Army property in that direction is Fort Morrison."

"Yes."

"You plan on visiting?"

"I went last evening."

"And that's where the door is?"

Batman nodded gravely. "The base was exceptionally well guarded."

"It's a military garrison."

"Even by the standards of an active Army site. Trust me."

"Okay. What did you find?"

"Our truck from the morgue. It was parked at a long brick building in the rear of the site. One story, no windows. Unfortunately, the building had very secure entrances. Guard checkpoints. ID passes. Floodlights."

"I get the idea. How'd you take a photo this close then?"

"The building had three doors: the main personnel door in the front, guarded and frequently used; a garage door on the side, rarely needed but also guarded; and an third door in the back," he pointed at the photo, "locked but unmanned."

"No one posted nearby?"

"Out of all static lines of sight."

Catwoman nearly purred. "_Very_ nice."

"Even then, picking the lock and cracking the combination would have taken me at least two minutes, long enough for the patrols to find me."

"Two minutes? That's pretty amateur."

"As you said, I usually don't use the door."

"Then you realized what you were up again against and left to find me?"

"No. Then I spent yesterday attempting to disguise myself as a corpse, but I realized acting dead convincingly during an autopsy would take weeks of preparation."

She laughed lightly.

"What's funny?"

"Your joke about the…oh. Really?"

He looked at her deadpan.

She waved away the comment. "Forget it. Go on."

"I realized my only sound options required a partner, a practiced infiltrator who can bypass the locks faster than I can. Someone who can take care of herself in dangerous situations. Someone with skills in-"

"If you don't quit now, I just might blush. I don't suppose you've considered writing a letter to General Marshall instead? Maybe send a telegram to Roosevelt? Who has the power to stop it?"

"Depends on who's behind it. The President, certainly. The congressional military committees. Certain flag officers. Possibly a federal judge. In any case, I'd need damning proof from deep inside that building: photographs of the bodies or copies of incriminating orders. That should compel a real investigation no matter who ordered it. If it's protected all the way to the top, then we take it to the people. I know newspaper editors that might risk printing it. But that's worst case scenario. I'd rather not involve any innocents. I won't let good people get hurt for this."

She took a defiant stance with her hands on her hips. "So instead you call me."

Batman mentally slapped himself. "Catwoman, I'm…I'm sorry. That was a poor choice of words."

"Oh, your words are just fine. First 'please', now 'sorry'. I guess your mother's proud she raised you right."

For half a blink, Batman grimaced and looked past her. This reaction was so minor and brief that Catwoman barely noticed it. She could have sworn that, for a moment, her favorite human Maoi statue had looked _vulnerable_. But how could that be?

That would mean ... had she hurt his feelings?

More importantly: he had _feelings_?

No. She must have imagined it. Batman was just staring away to find clues or something, probably going through calculus proofs until she calmed down.

Still, no point in being a jerk; that was his job.

Catwoman sighed and dropped the pose.

"I get it, we're not innocents when we put on the masks," she smiled, "me especially."

Batman was wise enough to keep quiet, even if he really, really agreed. He gave a non-committal head-tilt. She began to pace around him again.

"So, to reiterate: you want my help breaking into a very tightly-defended building in Fort Morrison, a superbly well-defended military instillation that Batman himself found too hot to handle? And if I'm caught, assuming I'm not shot to pieces in the process, I would be tried for high treason and thrown into the deepest, dirtiest hole they can find."

"Essentially."

"I guess it's my patriotic duty then. But I want double: three grand," she gave a grin and a wink, "and let's say twenty percent up front."

She was joking about the up-front payment, of course. Even if the Bat carried money around (and why would he?), there was no way he had that much on hand. Three thousand was nearly double what most locals made in a year.

He looked at her impassively. _Right, no sense of humor. _"I was just kidd-"

"Done."

Batman pulled out a roll of bills. To her utter astonishment, he began to count Benjamins into her hand.

"Meet sundown. Two days. Rodger's Repair Shop, it's a condemned building on the Turnpike just north of town."

Catwoman was busy starring at the crisp six hundred bucks in her hands. "Uh, yeah. Sure. Sundown. You do know I was joking about the twenty percent, right?"

"Be rested. Bring every tool you feel comfortable using. We can discuss a detailed plan then."

"Do you always carry this much green around?"

"Depends."

"On the sudden need to buy a house?"

Batman turned to leave. "Two days. Sundown."


	5. Small Talk

All claims are DC. Please enjoy. Reviews humbly appreciated.

**Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold  
**

**Chapter 5: Small Talk**

* * *

Bruce Wayne hated sleep. Sleep was when the demons came. For eighteen years it was the same montage: the metal click of the hammer; the bulb-flash turning off the night; two CRACKs of thunder; the airy musk of burnt saltpeter; a pause; then her string of weightless pearls in free fall; his own shaking hands, too pitiful to intervene; and finally, inevitably, his reflection in the wet cement.

And the pain didn't dull with repetition. His unconscious was Hell's own jazz band - it had a knack for inventing fresh twists on the classics. Maybe one night the assailant turned the gun on him too. Maybe the moon fell out of the sky and crushed the city. Maybe tiny worms crawled out of everyone's skin. His mind brewed misery with a variety that had not run stale in eighteen years. He passed his waking hours knowing torture hid behind his eyelids.

Not every dream was a nightmare. A few were far stranger: abstract pastiches and alien notions, rhymes, colors, tessellations, sense memories warped to the fringe of the inscrutable, sound and fury signifying nothing. He was a man having a stroke in a carnival, a drowning kaleidoscope.

These rare dreams were cold and lonely – fractal echoes of a burdened subconscious. Though painless, they unsettled him, made him question reality when he awoke. Bruce wasn't sure what caused these psychedelic visions. It wasn't toxin exposure or heat stroke; he was familiar with both. Bruce resented having some loose part of his psyche mocking his quest for self-knowledge.

In either case, whether violently coherent or unnervingly surreal, Bruce tried to avoid his dreams. This was mostly done by staying awake as long as possible, a harsh limit discovered through a lifetime of trial and error. Bruce occasionally wondered what this lean cycle would do to his longevity. He doubted he would reach an age to find out.

Still, all men must sleep. When forced to rest, he had a few other tools to keep the dreams at bay. In his traveling days, Bruce sought out the distant masters of the contemplative arts. In studying meditation, he steadily cracked the common limits of the mind. And perhaps most revolutionary of all these techniques, he learned to clear his subconscious before slumber.

Yet even these techniques were salves, not cures. To meditate, Bruce needed to empty his thoughts, a task which demanded patience and calm. By the time he got home he was often too tired to bother.

The real dilemma was medicine. Sleep research was an infant field, but there were plenty of drugs that shut off dreams entirely, if only for a night. For obvious reasons, these were among the first he studied. He knew the recipes by heart. And in the bad times, the days when waking and sleeping competed in the hurt they could bring, it was a seductive option indeed. There had been evenings as a young man when he sat on the cold tile of his bathroom floor with a tiny cup of pharmaceuticals in hand. He would sit and ponder, watching the swirls of the liquid inside. But in the end he always poured it down the drain. Bruce knew far too many addicts to solve his problems with a chemical. It didn't matter how often his own screaming woke him up.

* * *

Finally, and on very seldom occasions, Bruce slept without dreaming on his own. Such was the case last night: he simply fell into bed at four in the morning, brain boiling with plans and worries, then nothing. Now it was half past ten. He didn't feel anxious or bleak, just rested.

Pleasantly half-awake, he enjoyed the serenity of the moment, the texture of fine cotton sheets and the scent of the mint plant on the windowsill. In some tiny back office of his perception, Bruce heard the wall clock's minute hand click smoothly over the six.

A moment later, heavy curtains were pulled back and a regiment of sunlight pillaged every nerve endings on Bruce's face.

He blinked and saw a thin figure silhouetted in the light. The towering figure leaned over him and spoke.

"Rise and shine, Master Bruce."

Bruce Wayne was not a child. He didn't try petty tricks, pleading or turning over. They wouldn't have worked. Instead, he frowned and sat up.

"Good morning, Alfred."

"Good morning, sir. You didn't ring the trauma bell when you got in. No injuries I presume?"

"No."

"Good. Legal status?"

"Unaltered."

"Suit damage?"

"None."

"A refreshing change. And I must say you seem in high spirits this morning."

"I slept well."

Bruce wasn't smiling but did seem uncharacteristically relaxed, a nuance which spoke volumes for a practiced eye like Pennyworth's. The younger man pushed stiffly out of bad and accepted the offered glass of water. He took a sip and said no more, but Alfred wasn't fooled, having been awakened by the boy's screaming more often than the boy woke himself. But a gentleman was tactful. He let the miracle slide.

"Very good, sir. Your four newspapers are on the dresser. Breakfast is cooling downstairs." Alfred headed for the door. "Do hurry, I expect full details of last night's events when you're finished."

Bruce fought an old instinct to roll his eyes. Alfred Pennyworth had very few priorities in life that outranked knowledge of Batman's operations. Ensuring that Bruce Wayne got enough to eat was one of them.

* * *

Cities the size and age of Gotham had an almost recursive depth. Outsiders may stereotype, but Gothamites knew that each of Gotham's seven districts had its own story, and every community in those districts carried a certain attitude. Each neighborhood had a flavor. And sometimes a single block could be its own little country.

A classic example was the Newmar-Harlow Building.

The East End was the second or third ugliest district in the city (depending on who you asked and whether it had rained that day). The general standard of living rivaled Dickensian Manchester, except the East End dealt with industrial chemicals that the Victorians hadn't invented yet. An East Ender possessed a vocabulary half the breadth of the average American but knew fourfold the obscenities. It was the only place in North America where the muskrat was both a staple food and a leading cause of death.

Yet East Enders weren't all the same. The old jokes claimed they were all Scots-Irish bachelors, but a solid third of the district was taken by the Tricolour: a residential community of poor Greeks and very poor Hungarians, all married with children. One of the worst-kept secrets of Gotham politics was that, due to a quirk in the migraine-inducing shapes of city voting precincts, the Alderman's Seat always went to whichever candidate could win both sides of the Tricolour. Thus, a savvy Alderman aimed to unite the Greeks and Hungarians long enough to get elected and then sow discord between them to ruin future contenders. That second step was the easy one; Gotham's Greeks and Hungarians hated each other with a barely-contained passion no one else understood.

But even this wasn't the whole story. In the very center of the Tricolour was the Red Hill neighborhood, a ribbon of townhouses that ran between the Greek and Hungarian halves. Red Hill was almost exclusively a Negro area - families with deep roots and a few new faces up from Charleston. Relations with the bordering whites were cordial, but neither side passed though if they could help it, so Tricolour's two big rivals were effectively quarantined. All parties tacitly agreed this was probably for the best. City leaders prayed nightly that it stayed that way. Besides its strange role as a demographic no-man's land, Red Hill was also famous for its sandstone brick facades and Prohibition jazz clubs.

On the east side of Red Hill was Kitt Street, named for its founding resident, Benedict Kitt: 19th century German-Jamaican textile magnate, abolitionist, and attempted revolutionary. In 1863, Kitt was in New York during the Draft Riots when over a hundred minority New Yorkers were killed out of racial spite. It was a solitary tragedy, but Kitt mistook it as the first tremors of a national pogrom.

Returning to Gotham, he purchased all the slums within three blocks of his home and bought the rights to rename it after himself (his altruism never tempered his ego). Kitt then spent his fortune building a nation-in-miniature: a hotel, a civic center, a school, a post office, a stable, a newspaper, a public green, and even a hospital. Finally in 1865, on New Year's Day, he lit several hundred fireworks and declared independence from the Union, confidently ignoring the well-known anti-independence-from-the-Union policy the Union held at the time. Kitt's dream was that his neighbors would realize the inevitable race war and move to his glorious new country.

Kitt and six friends were arrested in minutes. It took an hour for the authorities to realize that the guy setting off illegal fireworks was committing treason.

This weird episode would have concluded with Red Hill getting a fine set of new public buildings, but unfortunately a stray firework landed in a pile of trash, eventually burning down all of Kitt's empire save for the hotel and hospital. The charred land eventually filled back in as before, leaving the cutting-edge medical center and the four-story luxury palace out of place among the shanties and flophouses. The plumbing alone would have been a zoning nightmare had Gotham possessed a functional zoning board.

The hotel passed through many hands as such white elephants are wont to until it became a set of apartments catering to the doctors who worked in the hospital next door. The hospital, eventually called East End General, soon became famous for its local pro bono work. It was out of respect for these doctors alone that the apartments hadn't been vandalized to destruction decades ago.

Under the most recent management since 1929, Kitt's dream hotel was now called the Newmar-Harlow Building.

* * *

Selina Kyle lived on the third floor of the Newmar-Harlow Building. Its apartments were far nicer than the price implied, a real four-star treatment at a two-star cost. After all, the market for upscale housing tended to be weak on streets where the garbage cans smelled like muskrat. This lean price tag suited Selina just fine. Her personal assets were decidedly _not_ liquid at the moment: you couldn't pay rent with a Nubian relic.

Furthermore, the East End in general and Red Hill in particular were very unfriendly to cops (to put it lightly). On the very slim chance the fuzz managed to catch a whiff of her less licit activities and came knocking, her neighbors would sooner lick a dumpster than snitch on a friendly local. A lady in her line of work found this trait useful.

It had been a strange night for Selina. She finally fell sleep by two-twenty and was up by six, much earlier than Bruce Wayne on both counts. Whereas his sleep was remarkably peaceful, her mind was churning the whole time; she told herself it was just the coffee. And while Bruce was met upon waking by an old friend, Selina was alone. She had to call one.

Pfeiffer's Wharf was a mere twelve blocks from the Newmar-Harlow Building. Unlike most of Gotham's beaches, it was pleasantly devoid of broken bottles or dead fish. Gulls squawked lazily overhead. A line of massive cargo ships puttered along the horizon. Here, Selina Kyle and Maven Lewis jogged along the cold sand in jackets and winter trousers, their scarves trailing behind them. The two were friends and occasional business partners. Selina ran fresh as a daisy with long, even strides. Maven didn't.

"_Huuu, huuu, huu_. _Ste-_ Stop! Stop. Need to catch my _bre-huuu-_breath."

Maven hunched over and panted her lungs out. Selina, a few yards ahead of her, begrudgingly stopped and jogged in place.

"Come on Maven, if you fall over, you'll get sand in your glasses. We've gone two measly miles."

Maven lacked the strength to lift her head but raised a finger in objection, "_Huuuu, huuu, huuu_ - Two miles - _huuu, huuu_ - over sand dunes - _huuuu huuu_ - in December - _huuuu, huuu, huuuu_ - you lunatic."

"I wouldn't call these little bumps 'sand dunes'. Let's make it to the dock and then we can get breakfast. You know I can't think straight before my run."

"Do you think straight, _phuuuuu_, ever?" Maven brushed her sweat-frazzled ponytail off her shoulder and achingly stood up. "Fine, but your news had better be dynamite."

"Like you wouldn't believe, Mave."

"And you're paying."

* * *

Most mornings, Bruce Wayne ate at a small table adjacent to the kitchen in the back of the East Wing. It used to be where the Manor's retinue of servants ate, in the days when that number was much larger than one. Bruce knew from old family stories that certain ancestors of his might take offense at their scion eating in a dim corner like a scullery maid, but if the house had any indignant ghosts around, he didn't care. He refused to let Alfred go through the burden of setting up the great dining hall every day for only one diner. And eating alone in that massive room was terribly depressing. Those priggish Waynes were never the heroes in his family stories anyhow.

"Your breakfast, sir." Alfred carried over a pewter tray with a muffin, diced pears, four poached eggs, and hot tea, all on fine china. Bruce nodded and began to consume with the indifferent efficiency he gave most domestic tasks.

Alfred virtually never ate with Bruce despite a lifetime of offers; the manservant had an ironclad sense of propriety about that sort of thing. Instead, he stood nearby and started the Morning Report.

The Report evolved out his breakfast reminders when Bruce was a teenager, mentioning the day's appointments and other news. When Bruce returned to the Manor as a young man, he requested that Alfred restart the tradition with a bit of an expanded scope. After all, Mr. Bruce Anthony Wayne wore many hats: business executive, philanthropist, host, travel enthusiast, real estate tycoon, serial romantic, and member of seven civic groups and three social clubs. Bruce found that keeping track of even three or four of these roles fiercely taxed his attention. Having a comprehensive four minute life summary to start the day was invaluable.

"-And at five past three, I'll supervise the weekly dusting of the fourth floor. The chaps from Wriggly Janitorial have proven through and discreet; if they do well this time, I'll offer them the full winter contract. The usual rates. Oh, and Mr. Fox called earlier this morning. He requested you in the office by ten. If you're willing to run the abbreviated variation of you mid-day exercise, we can easily get into the city by noon."

Bruce never stopped eating to nod or respond, but Alfred knew he was listening. Their bond was deep and needed few pleasantries. With familiar synchronicity, Bruce finished his last bite only seconds after Alfred's talk concluded. Bruce dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "No need to delay, Alfred. I'm skipping exercise today."

Alfred Pennyworth nearly coughed in surprise. Unless he was in traction, Bruce loathed missing a training session. "Is that so, sir?"

"Yes, if we head to the office early then we can return early. I have a few loose ends to wrap up tonight, the sooner the better. I'll also be cutting patrol much shorter. I intend to be in by eleven."

"Careful, Master Bruce, that timetable almost sounds civilized."

Bruce gave him a look. "Risible. I'm trying to save my energy."

Alfred put the dirty plates back on the tray. "I don't suppose this rest is merely a well-deserved gift to yourself."

"My birthday was last week."

"A delayed gift, then. I seem to recall you celebrated your birthday by attending your own party for a single hour-"

"And a half."

"-before slinking off to watch fungus samples under a microscope until morning."

"That fungus proved to be the lynchpin of a vital investigation."

"Indeed."

"Besides, I knew the guests had your charm and wit to entertain them, Alfred."

"Save the flattery, Master Wayne, I already made you breakfast."

"Regardless, it was a worthwhile endeavor"

Alfred gave the young man a calculating look. "And was last evening a worthwhile endeavor?"

Bruce sighed. "I suppose now I tell you how my night went?"

"Yes, Master Bruce, I suppose you do."

* * *

Selina and Maven conspired over pancakes in a corner booth at Granny Pickens, the only breakfast diner in the East End with a live fireplace during winter. They both loved pancakes, and Selina found it convenient that Granny Pickens was both religiously opposed to gossip and nearly deaf.

"-and he says that's where the truck ended up. So evidently they've transported these bodies to an Army base upstate. He needs me to crack some locks so he can get proof that Uncle Sam is in cahoots with the thieves and blow the gig wide open."

"Can you tell it again? Slowly?"

"Maven, that's the third time. It's not that difficult."

"No, not all this cloak-and-dagger hooey. I mean," she looked around to ensure they were still alone and whispered, "you actually talked to _The Batman_!"

Selina couldn't help but chuckle. Maven was usually the level-headed one. Plus, if she played it cool, it was easier to pretend that a tiny, irritating corner of her mind hadn't been playing the exact same tune since she woke up.

"Yes Mave, I talked to _The Batman_."

"The Real McCoy?"

"His invitation."

"And? And?"

"And naturally, he was a pompous killjoy, but less so than usual. It was a nice chat," Selina gave a cavalier shrug, as if such things were weekly parlor games.

Maven whistled. "Alright, paint the scene for me. What was he like?"

"Don't you want to talk about the job I accepted? The one where I commit espionage on the federal government? Or about the cabal of Army-sponsored body snatchers roaming the streets? Or how I'm set to jump two tax brackets if this goes through?"

"Ha. As if you reported all your income."

"Hey, you know I'm careful. That's how they got Capone."

"I was kidding, honey. I used to file your taxes. And no, I don't want to talk about any of that. Or, more accurately, I know better."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"How long have we known each other, Selina?"

"Are we counting Monaco?"

"Naturally."

"Baltimore?"

"Yes."

"Ottawa?"

Maven hissed, "_Ottawa never happened_."

"Geesh, you'll never let that go, will you? The boxcar wasn't even that bad."

"Ottawa ... Never ... Happened."

"Fine. Ignoring Ottawa, we've known each other about six years."

"And in those six years, how many times have you done something reckless?"

Selina pursed her lips like a scholar struggling for an obscure bit of trivia. "Several ... dozen?"

"Several dozen a year, at least. If I got worked up every time you were in way over your head, I'd have a conniption. However you do it, by now I'm sure you know what you're doing," Maven nodded emphatically, "And I'm double sure I couldn't change your mind anyway."

Selina let out a dramatic sigh. "Fine. What do you want to know about Batman?"

"Is he really seven feet tall?"

"Off by about a foot."

Maven gasped. "He's eight feet tall?"

"Guess again."

"Did he appear in a gust of wind?"

"Uh, no."

Maven readjusted her glasses and leaned forward. "Were there little bats following him around in the rafters?"

"No."

"Did you smell brimstone? Did his shadow move on its own accord?"

"No and no."

"Did his eyes look into your soul?'

"You actually can't see his eyes, there's some sort of frosted glass in the way."

"Did he fly in?"

"He walked in."

"Does he grow bigger when he gets angry?"

"No.

"He's an experiment gone horribly wrong!"

"Excuse me?

"Maybe he seems immortal because he's a clone. He dies and they send another."

"Well, I can't disprove that, but he sounded like the same guy. Moved like him too."

"A commie agent!"

"That's-"

"No, better, a team of disgruntled cops that take matters into their own hands."

"I've already said it's one guy."

"Maybe there is a group of Bat-men but you happen to meet the same one each time."

"Maven."

"Oh! Maybe it's always the same one because he's _assigned_ to you!"

"By whom?"

"Moscow!"

"Honestly, Maven. Where do you hear these things?"

Maven shrugged sheepishly. "Here and there. Don't pretend this isn't fascinating! He's a living legend! I mean, golly, you practically just had tea with Santa Claus. Or Dracula."

"You and everybody else in the city, huh? I've told you a thousand times; he's not a demon or a ghost or whatever else you think he is. And I admit he may be fascinating-"

"Ah-ha!"

"-but so is a car wreck. That genius who went over Niagara in a barrel was fascinating. I wouldn't exactly invite him to lunch."

Maven knew Selina better than that. "Are you sure you're not downplaying this just a tiny bit?"

"Cross my heart. He's a big lug with a balled up code of morality and a poor sense of self-preservation, nothing more."

"Said the pot to the kettle."

"Hey!" Selina gave an offended pout and crossed her arms. Her companion took the opportunity to steal half her pancake.

Maven had the patience and goodwill found in the best diplomats and kindergarten teachers, so she never bothered to match Selina quip for quip. It was easy to forget she had a wit of her own, making her rare _bon mots_ all the sharper.

Maven talked as she chewed. "Look - _Mmm_ - I'm tired of living vicariously through you." She stifled a burp, "I'm coming to see him."

"Maven dear, trust my voice of experience. Things around Batman tend to be very ... _active_."

"So?"

"You couldn't run three miles."

"I could if I had a good reason. Just bring me along and see what he says."

"Look, I'm sure Batman ... well, actually I'm not sure _how_ he'd react." Selina pondered at the ceiling. "That's an interesting question. He'd probably grunt and ignore you. Then he'd yell at me for bringing a guest."

"Shoot." Maven slumped onto the table like all the world's puppies told her they hated her. Selina shrugged apologetically and took a gulp of orange juice. "Any other questions?"

"Fine. If you thought he was so unexceptional, how would you describe him?"

Selina tried to speak but paused. Her habit would naturally be to fire off a nice zinger at Sir Frowny-face's expense. It was fun and easy. But some answers weren't supposed to be fun and easy. Batman was a lot of things, but she suddenly wasn't in the mood to make him a punchline.

How would she describe him?

Big. Intense. Powerful. Sure.

Clever. Stupid. Both true.

Deceptively quiet. Yeah.

Focused. Cold. Fair enough.

But those missed the heart of it. Of him. There was something about talking to the Dark Knight when they weren't trying to eviscerate each other. Some nuance rose to the surface, underpinning all he said and did. She realized that now. But what was it exactly?

Hmm ...

"Hello! Earth to Selina?"

"Hmm?"

"It's your turn. How would you describe Batman?"

Selina looked down and fidgeted with her glass. Finally, the nuance coalesced.

"Unhappy."

Maven waved dismissively. "Everybody knows he's angry. That's his-"

Selina looked up. "No. Not angry, unhappy."

"Not angry?"

"You've just heard the stories. Batman gets in fights, so of course they say he's vicious and crazy."

"And?"

"It's a biased survey. They didn't stop and listen to him. I did."

"So, he's not angry."

"Well, no he- ugh. Listen. Yeah I've seen him gets vicious, but only when he has to be violent. Or when his, I don't know, _values_ are insulted."

She got a dry look in response.

Selina's pitch turned adamant. "I get this is hard to believe, but the rest of the time he's-"

"He's what, Selina? Pleasant?"

"Calm. He's very calm. Even civil. But he's not happy. He's miserable."

"Did he mention this?"

"No. Don't look at me like that. I can tell. I watched him and I could tell."

"Alright, then why is he miserable?"

"I ... I don't know," It hurt to admit a plain truth, "I have no idea. Who knows why the Hell he does anything? But he's not a raving psychopath."

The two ladies sat in melancholy silence. Selina regretted sucking the fun out of the room.

Fortunately, Maven was never one to brood for long. "Well, at least we learned one interesting thing from last night."

"What's that?"

Maven pointed with her fork. "Psycho or not, when Batman really needed help, you were the first on his list."

* * *

"Master Bruce, pray tell again why you choose the candidate who was ninth on your list."

Bruce Wayne stood tall in front of his wardrobe mirror, applying a dab of cosmetic concealer to a small bruise on his neck. Alfred attended nearby, a selection of bold neckties draped over his arm. Alfred was giving Bruce a keenly skeptical look, his way of muttering '... _you raving psychopath_.'

It was a show of sublime respect that Bruce chose to ignore it.

"We discussed this. The first eight choices had insurmountable personal or operational shortcomings. She was the best, or if you prefer," Bruce rubbed the dab invisible, "the most tolerable."

Bruce put on a crisp white shirt and began to button. Alfred wasn't so easily assured.

"Forgive me for acting the broken record, but are you quite sure? Perhaps one more review of your options wouldn't be remiss."

After breakfast, Bruce began last night's tale: breaking up a fight in the Min Lee Marketplace, aiding an elderly couple whose car collided with a lamppost, saving the USS Gotham Bay, and so on. Bruce saved the meeting the elusive Catwoman for last. He stubbornly pretended all Bat-missions were equally worthwhile lest he cast doubt on his scrupulous prioritizing. Alfred tolerated the charade with typical patience.

When it was finally time to tell the story of the classroom encounter, Bruce kept the description brief. Just the facts. He downplayed her ... less professional remarks.

He also omitted their strange meta-conversation of body language entirely. To be fair, he was still trying to translate it.

Bruce finished the last button and straightened his cuffs. "I'm not pleased with this either, but as I said last night, at least she's not actively hostile-"

"My missing yards of suture thread say differently."

"-and she's proven amiable to reason, two very rare traits in my circle of contacts."

"If you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas, Master Bruce. One can only presume cats - as the less trustworthy of the two beasts - promise even nastier consequences."

Bruce studied the part of his hairline and adjusted a follicle. "Poetic."

"Every time you've mentioned this Miss Kyle in the past, you harp on her as capricious, flippant, and mercenary."

"And I'm confident that third trait will keep the first two in line."

Alfred chuckled darkly. "Oh-ho. I have a few words for your brazen show of money later, but for now I'm merely baffled and concerned that your opinion of her has improved so drastically. I fear this situation is impairing your judgment."

"Isn't it possible I've thought too little of her in the past?"

"Is it?"

"Perhaps."

"Would 'perhaps' be an acceptable standard if you hadn't imminent desire of her services?"

"No. But that doesn't make the situation any less dire. She gives this mission marginally better odds than if I acted alone. I can't say that for the rest of the list."

Seeing an impasse, the two men retreated into a heavy silence.

Alfred had his own history of military intrigue (a gripping tale for another day), and had involved himself in this operation at every step. Their "list" was a rough sketch of possible accomplices hashed out after Bruce returned from Fort Morrison a failure. The list's only criterion was that the accomplice be an expert lockbreaker. The rest was up for debate.

So they debated.

The first on the list was Hugh Gilbert: a police technician Batman once aided who was also a trusted friend of Detective Gordon, meaning he was both competent and honest. Bruce eventually nixed the idea. Hugh was indeed a master locksmith, but even if he was willing to help (a big if), they admitted he had no practice in infiltration. Plus, jeopardizing an honest cop in Gotham was like using a unicorn to check for landmines.

The second choice was Morton Brackenburger, the city's least scrupulous private investigator. He was the sort of PI with a revoked license in five states and seventeen restraining orders. Brackenburger was one the few men on the planet who trespassed on more properties in a week than the Caped Crusader. He had a reputation for taking on any target for any customer. Unfortunately, Brackenburger was booked solid for a month and he never dropped a client.

So they continued, proposing shadier and shadier characters in growing desperation until Bruce suggested the intractable Catwoman. Alfred thought it was a joke. Bruce, sour to the notion as soon as he brought it up, skipped to the next idea. But hours passed and the prospects grew thin. Bruce, in a moment of frustrated indifference, once again nominated Catwoman and, to their astonishment, neither man was able to find anything disqualifying. The decision was made: Bruce, a resigned yes; Alfred, a begrudging no contest.

Though he still couldn't conceive of anyone better, Alfred was now having second thoughts. As Bruce turned and examined the ties, they entered a tepid stalemate. Bruce usually had an enormous tolerance for uncomfortable silences, but the tactician in him realized he needed Alfred's input now more than ever. This was no time for a grudge. He tried to recall all his recently-proven apology skills.

Bruce cleared his throat awkwardly, "You know, I succeeded last night thanks to you."

"May I suggest the gold and blue Brooks Brothers? And how so?"

Bruce selected the offered tie. "The encounter had ... emergent rhetorical challenges. I would have failed without your tactical analysis."

"Tactical analysis? I don't recall-"

"Your negotiation techniques."

"Oh." Alfred nearly rolled his eyes, "I wouldn't call my advice last night 'negotiation techniques', Master Bruce. I believe a more suitable phrase would be 'simple courtesies' or 'basic etiquette'."

Frankly, Bruce didn't care what they were called. Alfred's ideas were superb.

It was Alfred who suggested psychological judo kata like "please" and "thank you", two pleasantries Batman suppressed out of habit.

It was Alfred who implored that he hold his temper and find emotional commonalities.

And it was Alfred who insisted he invite Catwoman to neutral territory instead of his usual opening move: breaking into her home.

Batman was skeptical at first, but he trusted Alfred so he tried the ideas. He couldn't argue with success.

For his part, Alfred was perennially bothered by how easily Bruce could view social customs as weapons, but he knew to pick his battles and let it slide.

"Well, forgetting my own qualms about the young lady, you are very welcome. And I am proud at what you managed to accomplish. With all my help it sounds like you managed to gravely insult her twice."

Bruce frowned. "In other words, better than expected?"

Alfred allowed himself a fatherly grin, "You know me too well."

Bruce slid into a pinstriped charcoal suit. A side compartment in his mind began to warm up procedures for Wayne the Company Man, Standard Edition.

"I admit her reactions were at times less than optimal-"

"What delicate, sensitive phrasing."

"But the bottom line is I've secured her assistance. We can proceed tomorrow evening."

* * *

"So you're just going to go through with this tomorrow evening?"

Selina rolled her eyes. "Whatever happened to being sure you couldn't change my mind?"

The two friends were strolling down Merriweather Street, famous for its line of stunted cherry trees along the median. They enjoyed the sharp December air.

"Maybe I'm more worried than usual. Sue me."

"Ha. Like I'll ever see a courtroom."

"Pride cometh before a fall."

"Alright, Sister Maven."

"Maybe you're heading into this a little rashly cause you want to beat that rough streak you're on."

"Excuse me? What rough streak?"

"You know exactly what I mean. Four of your last five jobs have gone sideways. I think you're looking for a novel challenge to break out of this rut."

"Rut? You're way off-base, Maven."

"And golly, lo and behold, a challenge just falls into your lap! You've told me a thousand times, 'never let the size of the score make you dumb'."

"Shut it Maven."

Maven threw up her hands in surrender. "Fine, I kept my mouth shut this long, I can keep it shut a little longer. But we're talking about it sooner or later"

"Good," Selina sighed, "Thank you."

"But you have to admit, most days you'd be tearing up the walls worried about some sort of double-cross. Forget the Army, Batman's been chasing you for a year! Suddenly he has a change of heart? I think he's neat, but he's so sneaky! How is this not bothering you?"

Selina had obviously debated that very concern since she woke up, but she had too much chutzpah to admit it now.

"Batman never sneaks up on people _verbally, _Maven. Breaking promises has never been his trick. He said we were in a truce. He seemed sincere. If he turns on me, I'll deal with it."

Selina neglected to mention the strange meta-conversation of body language they had last night. To be fair, she was still trying to translate it.

Maven huffed. "Money or not, I know how you think. You have this wacky over-the-moon gut feeling that a reckless stunt will get you back in gear. And if it means riding around with old Dracula-Claus, all the better! You're that sour at being off your game."

"You think I'm off my game? Watch this."

Selina nodded down the sidewalk. Ambling towards them was a ruddy-faced policeman with the bleary eyes of an all-night shift behind him. As they crossed paths at the corner, Selina 'stumbled' into the man, giggling mindlessly.

"Oh, I'm, *HIC*, sorry occifer, och, ox, op, um, officer."

The bemused policeman helped her stand with some stern words about temperance.

Maven gripped Selina by the shoulders and helped march her off, apologizing to the cop over her shoulder. He nodded and continued on his way. Selina dropped the act and looked back at him.

Maven glared with her hands on her hips, "And what was that supposed to prove?"

Selina held up a wallet and a class ring. Maven rolled her eyes, "Big deal. He was practically asleep."

"Wait for it."

"What?"

"Wait for it ..."

Selina gestured for them to hide behind a cherry tree. They watched the retreating officer in observant silence. "_Wait for it_ ..."

Near the end of the block, the man stopped and shifted strangely. A moment later, his trousers fell.

Maven gaped at her friend, "How did you-"

Selina grinned cat-like and held up a belt.

* * *

It was a known fact among Gotham's tiny circle of auto enthusiast socialites that Bruce Wayne preferred his burgundy 1938 Cadillac for the daily commute. Most of the models inside the famous Wayne garage bore paint jobs in more stunning blacks, blues, and silvers, but it seemed Bruce tried for that extra touch of modesty around the office. Naturally, the contradiction of a modest Cadillac was lost on that crowd.

"And recall again what happened next?"

Bruce quietly sighed from the backseat. He looked out the window at the skyscrapers passing by.

"And then she asked for a fraction of the pay in advance. She was joking, but I recognized it as another opportunity to seal our agreement. Negligible respect for property rights aside, Catwoman does seem to take formal contracts seriously. A useful quirk in this context."

"A trustworthy thief. Superb."

Alfred Pennyworth drove the Cadillac. One of Alfred's few demands when Bruce started his secret crusade was that they would be full partners. He could tolerate the boy he raised living an unhappy sham of a life and throwing himself into danger night after night - no matter how many white hairs it earned him - but he bloody well refused to be kept in the dark about it.

Bruce, in a rare show of trust, had agreed. It was a wise move. You couldn't replace fifty-seven years of savvy. Suffice it to say, the man wasn't born a butler. He knew what kings and ministers said behind closed doors. He could spot cheats, cowards, and liars from a mile away. He knew how men thought, even better than Bruce. And he knew how women thought, _much_ better than Bruce.

"Bravo, sir. But as I mentioned before we left, I'm concerned about the bribery involved."

"Payment, Alfred."

"Call it what you will, it's the magnitude that worries me. Who carries around a billfold one could purchase a house with?"

* * *

"I'll say this Maven, there was one strange thing about the whole ordeal."

"Oh? Just one strange thing?" her friend opined sarcastically.

Selina wasn't amused, "Well, the whole situation was sort of, uh ..."

"Batty?"

Selina stopped. "We're no longer friends."

"That one's free. You should use it on him. Maybe he'd smile."

Selina resumed walking and casually flipped her hair over her shoulder. "Please. If he doesn't smile at me already-"

"Feeling pretty today?"

"-he'd jump into a volcano before he'd smile at that."

"Okay, what was the one strange thing? Let me guess, he wasn't gentlemanly enough to ask about that big bandage on your nose?"

"He didn't ask, but no, that's not it."

"How'd you get that, anyway?"

"Flying hotel cart."

"Another job gone south?"

"No! The strange thing last night was all the money he had. I ask for three grand and he doesn't bat an eye."

"**_Bat_** an eye?"

Selina turned and swung a haymaker at her friend's chin. Maven laughed and ducked. Selina took the opportunity to shove Maven into traffic. Maven tumbled over and landed on her rear, fortunately cushioned by thick winter pants and two inches of snow.

Feeling they were even, Selina helped her up and continued. "Three grand! What do you think of that?"

Maven swiped packed snow off her clothes. "I think it backs up my theory."

"Which theory? You had a dozen theories."

"If he's got money then he's got backers. An organization. Maybe the Feds. Maybe he's a new kind of G-man, keeping the streets safe."

"Batman doesn't strike me as a _team-player_."

"He teamed up with you."

"Grudgingly, trust me. Watching him ask for help was like watching a man pull out his own teeth."

"But he did it."

"Okay, let's say he works for the Feds. Then why deal with me? I'm not exactly the most law-abiding citizen. And more importantly, why would he sneak into a military base?"

"He would if his agency thinks the Army has gone rogue. He needs outside help because he can't trust anyone in the establishment. It's a secret assignment after all. Maybe from the President!"

"No offense Maven, but I'll shelve that 'part of a group' one for now. Any other ideas?"

"Maybe he likes brunettes."

Selina snorted. "I mean any other ideas on how he's rich."

"You were probably right the first time. If he isn't some kind of ghost - which I doubt - he's a bitter recluse with a few screws loose who steals from gangsters."

"And then just lets the money pile up?"

"You said he didn't have any hobbies," Maven paused to step gingerly over a wino sleeping on a pile of doormats, "I bet he sits alone all day in a crummy basement. If he steals from wise guys and never buys anything, I'm sure he has a little left over to bribe some help from you."

"Pay for help."

"Bribe."

"Pay! And look, I'm not saying he isn't dysfunctional, but I doubt he's some bum living in a cave."

"Right."

"He's not just anger and muscles. He's smart. He's ... educated."

"Smart enough to find you," Maven took a prim sip of juice from her bottle, "_again_."

"Hey! That's doesn't make him smart; that makes him an overgrown bloodhound. A very _lucky_, overgrown bloodhound."

"This is Gotham. If he were so smart, he'd buy a gun."

"Maven."

"Hey, smart people can rob wise guys ... although I guess wise people wouldn't."

"I'm serious. I really believe he doesn't steal."

"Even from crooks? Do you know how silly that sounds?"

"Can you think of a single story when Batman actually took anything?"

"Oh ... I'm sure there's one ..." Maven scratched her forehead and tried to mumble an example.

"See? I've heard them all, Mave. Nada. None. Doesn't that seem strange? People out there think he can walk through walls and shoot fire out his ears, but not one anecdote mentions him taking anything from a crime scene. And he's always moralizing: 'Robbery is wrong', 'Put down the emeralds', 'No, I don't want to split it with you'. At first I though he was full of hot air like everyone else who comes out at night. But the more I see him, the more I'm convinced he's sincere. I wouldn't claim that lightly."

"How else would he get that much green, Selina? You think he's secretly a millionaire?"

* * *

"And you worry she thinks I'm a millionaire?"

"Master Bruce, I'm just saying your cavalier show of large-denomination bills might beg questions about your financial resources."

"Are you speculating that she might try to rob me, Alfred?"

"I'm speculating she might conclude that a man with a great deal of wealth might be wealthy. Hardly a leap of logic."

"It was a calculated risk to earn her cooperation. And I'm confident she could only conclude the opposite."

"How so?"

"You know I'm not prideful Alfred-"

Decades of practice in fine decorum enabled Alfred Pennyworth to stifle a snort.

"-but I'm a Wayne, and that name carries certain assumptions."

"Does it now?"

"I paid in cash. No one on the social register carries money like that. We make purchases by check or through our assistants." It occurred to Bruce that Alfred was keenly aware of this, but he was in a foul mood and didn't care, "Some of the guys at Princeton - guys whose dads could buy Greek islands - never held thirty dollars in paper currency. Only the crudest parvenu carries rolls of hundreds on their person: nightclub owners, loan sharks, and the like. I made an excellent disguise."

Alfred chuckled. "Oh, I'm well aware how little foresight you and your gilded ilk give to personal funds. And I know how the _petit bourgeoisie_ love to christen their wallets. The question is: does Miss Kyle? Imagine if, despite your deceptions, she was unfamiliar with the nuances of class and defaulted to the _commoner_'s assumption that the very rich carry grand sacks of money."

Bruce rubbed his eyes. "She seems ... adequately sophisticated."

"Or Heavens, even worse: what if she is stricken with the fancy that a man dressed as a bat may have habits that don't match his social circle?"

Bruce opened his mouth but then frowned. He had no response to that. He silently damned this case for forcing him to act rashly. Then he damned himself for making excuses.

"What's done is done Alfred."

"A rare attitude for you, sir. May I proffer a suggestion?"

"Always."

When you pick the lady up, don't take the Bentley."

* * *

"Well, maybe he is a millionaire. Or friends with one. He had to get the money somehow."

"Wouldn't that be swell. He could bribe you to go home every time you meet. Save you both a scrap."

"Maven!"

Maven snickered as she waited for a fat muskrat and her line of babies to pass into an alley.

"I know rich people have some funny habits, but let's face it: any silk-pantsed old fart with enough cheddar to bankroll the Yankees isn't spending his nights lassoing pickpockets. I'm telling you Selina, he got that cash by pillaging pernicious punks. Why do you think the cops hate him? They aren't used to a penniless crime scene. He's competition."

Selina sighed and watched her breath in the frigid air. "Maybe."

Neither spoke for a minute.

"Selina, I can't talk you out of anything, but be careful. I shouldn't have to tell you he's dangerous."

"Of course."

"And if he didn't set this up to catch you ... maybe that's even worse."

Selina lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. "How so?"

Maven looked away meekly, having used up her bravado for the day. "I mean, it's Batman."

"And?"

"If Batman, _The Batman_, needs help with something ... well ..."

Maven finished the sentence with a meaningful look. Selina knew that look. It was full of trepidation and wonder, the look Gothamites used when they wanted to imply something about the Bat, as if mentioning him too loudly might make him appear.

Selina laughed until she half-swallowed a loose scarf thread. Spitting out a thread, she rolled her eyes.

"I'm not worried, Maven. I've handled worse blindfolded. Heck, it might even be fun."

* * *

Much later that evening.

Detective James Gordon grimaced and checked his watch. His mood was the polar opposite of fun.

He lounged on the twelfth floor fire escape outside his family's chilly apartment, idly smoking his second cigarette.

He came here most evenings to clear his head. He liked to tell himself it was the stress of the damn job, but frankly he just had to get away from the old ball and chain every so often (more often every week, it seemed). Admitting this made Gordon feel like dirt. He had so little time at home and little Barbara was growing up so fast. But no, he was spending it up here, alone, hiding from the woman he married just to duck an argument. Hiding like a punk.

He glanced at the moon, or rather, at glow in the dense foundry smoke where the moon ought to be. Gordon added a wisp of his own with a cheap Chesterfield.

To be fair, coming up here also enabled covert meetings with a certain-

"**Detective Gordon**."

-unapproved partner.

He put out the cigarette in a blue ceramic pot and turned. Batman perched soundlessly and with perfect balance on the handrail. With no lit windows nearby he was nearly invisible: a shadow's shadow. No one would see them tonight.

"Batman. Care for a smoke?"

"**I'll pass**."

Detective Gordon shrugged, then he coughed roughly and thumped his chest. He hated living downwind of that foundry. Batman watched impassively. After a moment, he found his breath and shivered.

"Right. Any luck?"

It was Gordon who alerted Batman to the corpse thieves a month ago. Gordon revealed how other cops sticking their noses in the mystery soon had those noses cut off. Gordon was responsible for alerting Batman about the recent double murder. And it was through his sources in the Turnpike Commission that Batman found where the thieves' truck had been headed.

For a litany of reasons, Batman hadn't mentioned any of this to Catwoman last night.

"**We were right about the truck. It was the Fort**."

Detective Gordon was suddenly all business. "And?"

Batman leaned a hairsbreadth lower, which Gordon knew by now meant frustration in Bat-gesture.

"**Security was tight. I left empty-handed**."

Gordon took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He wasn't disappointed per se. Batman wouldn't retreat from anything unless retreat was overwhelmingly necessary, but that still left them at square one.

Like any cop in Gotham, Gordon had a keen sense of when to call quits on a case. He glumly put his glasses back and tapped another cigarette from its pack. "Alright. I guess we're going to the press empty-handed. I'll take the fall for it, if it comes to that."

Batman nodded in respect, "**I know, but not yet**."

"Then what? Morrison was our last gambit."

"**I'm making one more attempt on the base. With help this time**."

Gordon coughed and nearly dropped his cigarette. He lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "Help? You?"

"**This time**."

"Care to share his name?"

"**It's better you don't know**."

Jim gave a harsh chuckle. "Of course, since I'm always on the straight and narrow towards unofficial consultation."

"**Give me seventy-two hours. If I'm not back, go public**."

There was nothing left to say. Gordon looked up at the clouds.

Batman was already gone.


	6. Facing the Wall

All claims are DC. Please enjoy. Reviews humbly appreciated.

**Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold**

**Chapter 6: Facing the Wall**

* * *

There is a folk tale in Gotham called the Legend of Susie Popinski ...

Years ago, a traveler arrived on the last train to Westville Station. He set out to find a certain hotel but was new to the streets and soon lost. Night fell and Gotham's night-folk slithered out of their dens. Rounding a corner near midnight, the traveler saw a pack of motley youths conspiring under a gas lamp. As the gang turned to him, wild-eyed and grinning like sharks, the traveler glimpsed a slender girl behind them, trapped beneath the lamplight. Not a day over thirteen, she wore a pretty blue dress with dainty curls in her hair. The traveler feared what dark business the gang had surrounding this young lady, but he feared for his life even more and sprinted away.

He ran nine blocks before catching his breath, his mind echoing with all the gruesome rumors of Gotham street toughs whispered across the country. Soon after, he found an inn. Weary to the bone, the traveler bought dinner at the bar and sat to eat. As he ate, he told his tale to the barkeep, a paunchy old local who knew the area well.

Soon he mentioned the young girl in the blue dress. Hearing this detail, the barkeep's eyes bulged and he gaped in awe. The barkeep asked the traveler if he had met the group on Ninth Street. The traveler supposed this was possible and the barkeep told him there was an infamous gang there called the Ninth Street Hooligans, the most terrifying in the city. Indeed, the traveler was lucky to escape! One word from their boss and the Hooligans would have chased him all the way to Bludhaven.

Morbidly curious, the traveler asked who could lead such a crew. "Was it the stocky lad with the knife?"

"No," said the barkeep, "that was Stabber Sam: a crass ruffian in the worst way, but not the boss."

"Was it the hunched boy with the droopy eye?"

"No," said the barkeep, "that was Torcher Tim: there's a bounty on him from the Fire Brigade worth a gold watch, but he's not the boss."

"Was it the brute with the baseball bat?"

"No," said the barkeep, "that was Head Trauma Jones: charismatic, I suppose, but not the boss."

"Then who orders around the Hooligans? Who's the boss?"

The barkeep glanced around to make sure his establishment was empty then leaned forward.

"That'd be Susie Popinski."

"The wee girl?"

"The same."

"But she's a child! Why would fiends like these Hooligans deign to listen to her?"

The barkeep scrutinized the traveler. He rested his old arms on the counter and shifted his head just beside his patron's ear, as if the walls might listen in. The barkeep continued in a voice forced low and calm.

"Don't be fooled, son; you cross Susie's path again; you better hoof it for the county line. She's Hell-in-polka dots. A hot spit worse than all the other jackals put together."

"How? What happened?"

"Not wise to say 'round here, but ask yourself; what sort of deeds would a sprite like her need to do to scare a group like them?"

The traveler slept fitfully that night. He awoke before dawn, hailed a carriage to the station, and never returned to Gotham again.

* * *

Like most folk tales, the great professors of lore disagreed on what it meant. Some said the lesson was the folly of making assumptions. Some read it as a warning against the violent working class. A few thought it was another example of locals bragging how tough they were, that the story had a _happy_ ending.

Amanda Waller was no professor. She didn't think literary criticism was worth a plug nickel. She was new to the state and avoided its namesake city like the plague. Needless to say, Amanda Waller probably never heard this particular legend.

This was a shame. She would have loved it.

Amanda "The Wall" Waller was a squat, formidable woman, all thighs and hips, with an intellect like a battleship and a face like a battleship. They could have carved Mount Rushmore from the chip on her shoulder. She had dark brown skin and kept her black hair in a short bob. Her voice was harsh from a lifetime of yelling at idiots and the occasional cigar.

Amanda was born on the worst streets of Chicago, the granddaughter of sharecroppers. The Wallers took nothing for granted. As far as she was concerned, the Almighty gave her grit, brains, and American citizenship; the rest was stacked against her. She recognized this at a young age, and her reaction was to man-up and fight. So she fought and she won, albeit as much of a win as a woman of color could grasp in a land where half the restaurants were segregated and Klansmen ran for office. In a different time, she could have clawed her way to the White House.

Nevertheless, she was somebody. She had clout. Just how far had she risen? A difficult question. Amanda Waller worked among men with distinguished titles - senators, ambassadors, admirals – but she had no title of her own. She worked in the shadows between titles, in the spider's web of quiet departments all governments sometimes needed to get anything done. Her kind was the oil that kept the cogs of power spinning. For the sake of appearances, Amanda was occasionally called an attaché, an assistant, or a specialist. What mattered was that she could make federal agents fetch her coffee and twenty-year colonels gave an audience at her whim.

With Amanda's limitations, this was an ascent to shame Caesar. And like old Julius, much of her success was owed to the keen recognition that if you wanted something done right, sometimes you had to do it yourself.

* * *

In this case, doing it yourself meant Amanda Waller was standing outside in an inch of half-melted snow, stuck ten miles north of the frozen butt-end of nowhere and struggling to see shapes in a patch of icy mud with the help of an overgrown child who probably started shaving last year.

"Just what are we looking at, Private?"

"Errr ..."

Private First Class Norton Hershey was a good soldier. He marched where he had to march. He saluted when he had to salute. When he fitted a bed, you could bounce a desk lamp off of it. Good soldiers follow orders. For that reason alone he kept his thoughts to himself. It wasn't easy: he had plenty of concerns to share regarding this strange black lady who showed up four months ago in a fancy car wearing a fancy coat. She looked distinctly un-military, but word came down from brass saying everyone had to dance to her song until further notice.

There was one soldier who didn't get with the program, a Lieutenant Alan Moss, who confronted her a few days after she arrived. The story went that Waller told him to clean up his disorganized workspace, but the lieutenant spit at her feet and accused her of something unprintable. For his conduct, he was swiftly promoted to a two-year stint on an ice barge off the coast of Alaska. No one talked back to her again.

Rumor was she was some specialist out from Washington reviewing the base doctors. The officers called her Ms. Waller. Enlisted boys weren't supposed to talk to her at all. This was the first time she had spoken to him, and it took a second for PFC Hershey to collect himself. Ms. Waller wasn't pleased with the hesitation. For a lady half his size, she sure looked more than willing to take him behind the woodshed if he didn't shape up.

She set her arms on her considerable hips and frowned. "Well?"

"It's like I just told the Sargent, ma'am. After the snow froze this morning, I found these two boot-prints outlined in the mud right here."

"Looks sort of vague. Are you sure that's a boot-print?"

"All due respect ma'am, but soldiers get a lot of experience making tracks in the dirt. That's a boot-print."

"Fine. Lots of boots around here. What's special about these?"

"Its tread ain't one we use."

"So an intruder was here last night."

"Maybe last night. Maybe earlier than that. The ground's been dry and brittle these past few days. If nothing else disturbed it, the prints may have stayed in the dirt."

"Hold on. You walk patrols between these two buildings every afternoon, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And you haven't noticed the print until today?"

"I haven't, but it may have been there without me noticing."

Ms. Waller looked skeptical. "Uh-hmm."

"This ground is uneven, and there's always shadows from that wall. Small tracks would be nearly hidden without the snow, their distinguishing contours only visible when chromatically contrasted with the ice"

"Chromatically contrasted?"

"All due respect, ma'am, I know the assumptions about my chosen profession, but I am an educated individual."

To his relief, she was more amused than annoyed at the comment.

"Is that so?"

"Self-taught, ma'am."

"Fine. So you're saying we can't tell whether the prints were made six hours ago or a week?"

"Not a week. I wouldn't bet on any tracks here lasting more than two or three days, even frozen. I'm just about the only one who goes though here, so no one else would contaminate it. People tend to stay on the gravel paths."

"Fine, let Colonel Tanner know I want any man who's noticed anything the least bit suspicious in the past seventy-two hours to inform me. That's highest priority."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oh, and Private Hershey?

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Don't you think it strange that there's only two prints? Why isn't there a whole line of them?"

"Now that you mention it, ma'am, it is strange. The ground was just as soft for fifteen yards in each direction, but there's no prints leading in and none walking away. It's like our intruder's footsteps just got real heavy for a spell."

"Hmm. Perhaps ..."

Amanda Waller had a sudden notion and stared upward. Strung nearly twenty feet above their heads was a black telegraph cable. The cable was a petty fixture of the base, easily forgotten. But Amanda Waller wasn't the type to ignore details. Suspicions began to percolate.

"Perhaps they got heavy because that's where he fell out of the sky."

"Um, uh, I ... suppose that's a possibility, ma'am. But aircraft don't pass by here, and we would have seen a parachute."

"Hm. Very good, Private Hershey. Dismissed. Oh, and when you talk to Colonel Tanner, let him know I would like to speak with him at his earliest convenience, and that his earliest convenience will be in half an hour."

* * *

Good economists know that industries run in cycles. A popular business expands until demand outpaces reason. When players realize this, the industry falls. It happened to tulips, it happened to silver, and ten years ago in Gotham, it happened to cars.

Gotham was a classic train town. Railroads, trolleys, and shipping lines had their claws deep in city hall and the state house since the Civil War. It didn't help that Gotham was built in the twisting Old World style, all alleys and crowded squares unsuited to straight paved roads. Gotham was the last American city to accept cars as a way of life, and it didn't come easy. The automotive giants and their allies spent millions in court battles, public hearings, commercials, and union deals to break open this juicy market. The Gotham Auto War, as the struggle was called, lasted from 1922 to 1927. After the war was won, the last years of the decade were a victory lap for the car. Gotham plopped down roads, signs, gas stations, and dealerships with reckless enthusiasm, as if making up for lost time.

Then, in 1929, the stock market crashed.

Suffice it to say, the motor vehicle eventually recovered in Gotham, but the fallout wasn't pretty. Plenty of ruins remained here and there from the car's brief golden age, most famously the stretches of unfinished raised highways blotting out the sky like old Roman aqueducts. Rodger's Repair Shop was one small piece of that fallout. Built along the Gotham Turnpike a few miles outside the city, its sales nearly tripled each of the first four months it was open. Then the market collapsed and the shop closed in the fifth month. No one had touched the building since.

* * *

Catwoman drove past the husk of Rodger's Repair Shop twice before she realized it was the place. In her defense, many letters had fallen off the sign, leaving a faded "_Roge 's ep ir op"_ to go by. The windows were broken. The bricks were stained. A tow truck more rusted than any hunk of metal she had ever seen was decomposing in the frozen weeds. If she sneezed, she was certain the paleolithic vehicle would collapse into dust.

"I guess Rodger left town", she muttered, bemused. Catwoman parked her purple Phantom III in the side lot behind a sagging wooden fence (the Royce was one of her few blatant indulgences, the gleeful consequence of a certain windfall last year). Stepping out, she pulled down her mask and adjusted her hair out the back, then took in the view. The bump on her nose had headed enough for her to lose to bandage, leaving a tiny cut. It was about five minutes until sunset. Heedless of all other concerns, she couldn't help but smile. Nighttime was her time.

Speaking of which, it was time to see if their little truce stuck. Where was he?

Catwoman did a quick half-lap of the site. Besides a scattering of debris, it was empty.

She approached the entrance. The door was nowhere to be seen. The front office was dark.

Hmm.

Catwoman nimbly scaled the unhelpful sign and leaped to the shop roof. As expected, the paper shingles were nearly collapsed at points. She found a narrow gap above the garage, brushed off the snow, and slipped inside.

Dropping to a rafter beam, Catwoman surveyed the room. Old tables. Old parts. And a tarp in the main bay covering something shaped very much like an automobile.

Hmm!

She lowered quietly to the ground. The last shades of blue twilight began to disappear from the broken windows. Catwoman circled the concealed car. She gripped the tarp and yanked it off the see ...

... a humble Ford Model 48 hardtop. Beige. She cross her arms in disbelief. "Really?"

The space behind her answered. "Catwoman."

Catwoman nearly jumped to the roof. Instead, she twisted and aimed a fierce kick at the voice.

Batman calmly evaded. "If you're ready, we should go."

She was too shocked to be angry. "Where were you?"

"I was waiting behind the desk in the office, presuming you would use the entrance."

Catwoman resumed her composure. "Since when do I use the entrance?"

He conceded the point with a fractional head-shrug. "Ready to leave?"

She thumbed over her shoulder. "In this jalopy? The Mighty Batman drives a Ford coupe?"

"The car's in good working order."

"Half the city thinks you can fly. I thought you'd at least drive something a little, I don't know ..."

"What?"

"Fierce. _Iconic_." She tapped him on the chest emblem. "You seem like a fan of icons."

He turned away from her touch. "The car is inconspicuous. We need subterfuge."

She turned after him, arms akimbo. "Said the man with the cape to the lady in a purple mask."

"Its windows are tinted. We won't be seen."

"Tinted windows are discreet? Who has tinted windows? A few mafia dons? The mayor?"

"Would anyone pull over the mayor? Regardless, the tinting won't be noticed in the dark."

"Come on, Batman, let's take my car."

"The Rolls-Royce? Far too conspicuous."

"It's cold tonight, mine's much more cozy."

"Comfort is irrelevant."

"My car's faster."

"We have plenty of time."

"I want to take my car."

"That ... doesn't ..." Catwoman could see the skin of his face shift, like a speaker vibrating a note too low for human ears. But whatever he wanted to say, he held it in. Finally, he spoke with deliberation. "... I respect your opinion, but I hope you reconsider."

She rolled her eyes and leaped over the hood to the passenger's side. "Fine, before you blow a gasket."

He grunted in acknowledgement and opened the garage latch. She smirked. "I'll take that as a thank you. Now get in, I'm eager to see how exactly one sits on a cape."

* * *

The side roads north of the city were frosted slick, a ribbon of no-name towns and swampy forests. Batman stayed off the highways. Gotham State Troopers had big quotas and vivid imaginations; if the pair got pulled over for some half-dreamt misdemeanor, it would be mighty hard to explain what they were wearing.

These detours gave them lots of time stuck together. He was willing to resolve this discomfort with hours of monolithic silence. She was not.

Catwoman looked around the Ford's interior. "I'll admit it looks nicer from the inside."

Batman said nothing.

She continued, "Nice, but not ritzy, you know? I was half expecting you to pull up in a Bentley."

The quintessential actor, he glanced in honest puzzlement. "Why?"

"You were showing all that cash the other night. A girl can only wonder."

"Let's just say I've been saving up."

"Uh-huh. Your line of work isn't exactly lucrative."

"I make do."

"With a day job?"

"**My day job is preparing for the night,**" said Batman with dark conviction.

Catwoman rolled her eyes.

"So, no friends? No hidden cabal of backers with deep pockets? No mastermind ordering you around in this war against crime, moral lassitude, and all things naughty?"

"I work alone."

"Oh? What about-"

He sighed, "Present company _tentatively_ excluded."

She hummed approvingly. "Damn straight, handsome. You better not expect me to follow along with just any wild idea you set off on. I'm not your little soldier. We plan together."

"Why do you assume I'd behave that way?"

"I work alone, too."

Batman considered this. "Fine"

"Great. So tonight we're partners-" Catwoman heard a grunt of deep discontent and laughed, "or something like that?"

"Something like that. Now fasten your lap buckle."

"Uhm, what?"

"That woven strap beside you. The seatbelt."

She looked at the strange device near her arm. "I'm pretty sure those are for airplanes."

"And I installed one in the car. Automotive accidents cause more deaths than violent crime by a wide margin; darkness and icy roads only magnify the threat. Put it on."

"You're not wearing it."

"I didn't want to be restrained lest I had to get out rapidly-"

"And that couldn't apply to me?"

"-but in the name of compromise, I'll put mine on." Batman dutifully dug out and fastened his seatbelt. "Now put it on."

"Nope. Besides the fact that you're trying to order me around, which we _just_ talked about, this has got to be some creepy way of trapping me. No one wears seatbelts. You can forget it."

"It's not a trap."

"Said the infamous master of deception and ambush."

Batman didn't respond. A minute later, he swerved sharply to avoid a trio of deer crossing the road. Catwoman fell sideways against the door. "OWW!" She sat up and unsheathed her claws with a hiss. "_You did that on purpose_!"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"_Really!_?"

Batman shrugged. "These roads can be hard to navigate. Potholes. Fallen tree limbs-"

"**Fine!**" Catwoman retracted claws and grumpily put on her seatbelt. "_Jerk._"

One nice thing about the Dark Knight, he didn't gloat. He was already back to business. "You said you wanted to plan together. Let's talk plans."

"Great. Take it away."

"The Army built Fort Morrison in 1918 to lead the state quarantine of the influenza epidemic."

Catwoman's perpetual half-smile disappeared. She shivered and her voice became very quiet. "_Yeah_. _I remember the Flu_."

Batman was watching the road and didn't respond. After a moment, she pulled herself together. "But hold on, they never quarantined Gotham."

"They planned to. Certain officials assumed the infections would surpass what the hospital system could handle. Mobs would assault pharmacies, train stations, grocers. Whole neighborhoods would be condemned. Basic goods would stop arriving. There would be anarchy."

"And if the city became unlivable ... all those people had to go somewhere."

Batman nodded grimly. "Waves of refugees would spread chaos across the Eastern Seaboard. The quarantine would stop that."

"But obviously it didn't happen."

"They realized the disease could be contained. The plans were shelved. Quietly."

"I've never heard of this."

"They covered their tracks."

"Did the Army try to quarantine other states?"

"Not that I've heard."

"Why only Gotham?"

"I suspect limited resources. Gotham was seen by some as ... uniquely vulnerable to social collapse."

"What do you mean?"

"To quote the chairman of the Senate hearing, 'this malarial Sodom, a coven of degenerates and reprobates held by the loosest threads of civility, would turn on itself like insects at the first distress before fleeing outward with a fearsome virulence.'"

"You memorized that."

He scowled. "**The quote stuck with me.**"

She quietly whistled. _Wow_. "So after the Flu passed, I guess they shut the site down."

"Right, but the Army kept the property. The Fort was reopened in '35 as a logistical depot and expanded by the CCC."

"They're taking the bodies to some warehouse?"

"There were rumors in June that part of the base was to be made into a school for field medics. No official statements confirm this, but I have a feeling it's connected."

"I guess a lot of medical gear would left behind from the quarantine planning."

He grunted agreeably. "The military is rarely in the habit of throwing things away. As for the staff, the last six commanders graduated during-"

"Hold on. As much as I love history, I prefer a nice book and an afternoon on a park bench. Don't you want to talk about what we're going to see?"

"I find broad knowledge of a place offers practical benefits in a mission."

"Do you always study the places you intend to trespass this obsessively?"

"When I have time."

"So bureaucratic details from twenty years ago come in handy?"

"On occasion. Don't you want to prepare?"

"Make no mistake, Batman. when it's time to play I do my homework, but when I'm in a hurry that means I stick to what's useful."

"Fine." He reached into the glove compartment and handed her a binder. "Choose what you deem useful on your own."

She pulled out her small flashlight and read the cover.

"_'Case File 1132.9A: __Fort __Morrison__ Recon_'. Hmm. Sounds like a best-seller." She opened it up. "This file's fifty-seven pages long!"

He nodded. "Subject headings indexed in front."

"You typed this?"

"This morning. The last nine pages are diagrams."

Catwoman whistled and flipped to the end. "Maps. Blueprints. Badge insignia. You sketched this too?"

"Draftsmanship is a useful pursuit."

"But you were only there a few minutes. You remembered all of these details?"

He looked uncomfortable with the complement. "The file's not comprehensive."

"Wow, and humble too."

"What does that mean?"

She shrugged happily. "Nothing."

Behind his lenses, he rolled his eyes. "I suggest you start with page fourteen. Ingress and egress routes."

She read awhile, flashlight gripped in her teeth. Batman let her study. Minutes passed in amicable silence. Then the car hit a large bump. Her beam of her light was jolted and for a brief moment Catwoman noticed something curious.

"Hmm!"

She pointed her flashlight into the empty glove compartment. If she wasn't mistaken (and she rarely was), the back of the compartment was etched with strange groves along the corners. She pressed against these groves and and tried to shift them.

Batman saw what she was doing and growled, "**Don't touch that**!"

For Catwoman, this was vindication. She winked at him and responded through clenched teeth, "Hash zhat line evar vherked?"

Batman rapidly considered his options. They were in a winding forest; he couldn't take his hands off the wheel. He knew a few restraining holds employing only the legs that _might_ work sideways from a sitting position, but even the best pin was an iffy proposition with Catwoman, whom he knew from extensive experience was an excellent grappler. And here she obviously had more leverage.

Catwoman momentarily mused whether Batman would try to physically stop her. She wasn't _too_ worried; she obviously had more leverage, and it wasn't like he knew any restraining holds that used the legs sideways from a sitting position. With a series of quick taps and nudges, she made another attempt on the glove compartment. Finally, a certain push slid the wall open. Jackpot! Behind this false wall was a hidden chamber wherein she spied ... a large stack of files.

Catwoman had once stolen a bevy of actual royal jewels from an actual castle. That intricate scheme took two months of preparation. Yet her smile holding those jewels was not half as wide as the smile she wore now. She pulled out an armful of files.

Batman scowled. Saying the Dark Knight was scrupulous about his equipment was like saying Mount Everest was above shoulder height: true, but gravely missing the scope of the comment. He was obsessive. Still, he was human, and humans made mistakes. In this case, his mistake was not removing some files from his hidden car chamber before a master thief climbed her way into the passenger seat.

Catwoman started to read the titles. To his supreme annoyance, she sounded more intrigued the further she went.

"'_Axis Submersibles Blockade North Atlantic at 50% Efficiency', 'City Councilman Scandalized by Infidelity', 'Salmonella Outbreak in Lower East Side Produce Markets_.'"

"Catwoman."

"Wow, there's more: '_Axis Submersibles Blockade __North Atlantic__ at 90% Efficiency.' _Ouch_. 'Rapid Inflation in the Canadian Dollar', 'Saboteurs Infect House Pets with Rabies__'_, 'Mind-controlled Flightless Birds Fire Rockets at Major Civic Buildings', 'Sewer-dwellers Use Bribery and Fraud to Steal Mayoral Election', 'Coca-Cola Proves Cancerous', _'Munitions Shipment Hijacked by Anarchists on Train - Variation Seven_.' How many anarchists do you run into?"

"**Catwoman**!"

"Well, I guess I owe her an apology."

"What are you talking about?"

"A friend gave me the idea that you had a team supporting you. I said she was wrong, but, gosh, this settles it. There's no way you sat down on your own and did all these. I don't care how fast you type, that would be ridiculous."

Batman said nothing.

"So, what's this all about? Why do you have these in your car?"

"Those are contingency plans: basic thought experiments I refer to when I don't have the luxury of time."

"And you keep them in your car?"

"Some. I have others elsewhere.

"I bet you have a big mountain of these at home. How do you choose which to keep in the car? They seem random."

"I have a system."

"Uh-huh." She flipped through the stack some more. "Wait, what's this one. Hmm ...'_De-orbit Moon in Seventeen Steps_' ... What the-"

Batman, seeing a safe stretch of road, leaned over and swiftly snatched the stack of files off her lap, throwing them back in the glove compartment.

Catwoman gaped at him. "The moon? You have a plan to get rid of the moon?"

"It's a contingency. Not important."

"Why? How would you even get to the-"

"Not important."

"In what possible situation would it be useful to-"

"**Not. Important.**"

"Hold up, do you have a file on me?"

He said nothing and glared stoically forward out the windshield.

"Do you have _several_ files on me?"

He said more nothing and glared more stoically.

"You do. Ha. Of course you do."

Batman gave a silent prayer of relief that he hadn't left that particular bundle in the car.

Catwoman shrugged and continued to read, laughing now and then at especially far-fetched hypotheticals. Soon they began to climb the foothills of the Kahontsi Range, a line of broad peaks that marked the northern border of Gotham state. After an hour, Catwoman stretched her arms up and craned her neck to get the blood flowing. She noticed Batman steal a glance and smirked.

"Glad you approve, handsome."

"What?"

"Nothing. We almost there?"

Batman nodded.

"Alright, we're working together; let's share a little bit in the meantime. You already know a little about me. How about-"

"No."

"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"

"You were going to ask questions about me."

"Well, yeah."

"No."

"Come on, we might not get another chance to talk."

"One could hope."

"Just a few questions."

"No."

"You can ask first."

"No."

"Surely there's something you want to know about me."

"Do you intend to return any valuables you've stolen?"

Catwoman frowned. "That's not what I meant."

"Then no."

Catwoman crossed her arms. "If you don't play, I'm jumping out of the car right now."

Batman paused to consider how serious she was. He glanced at her. She stared at him.

Sometimes he _really_ hated dealing with night-types.

"Fine. But I reserve a veto."

"Great! First question: how old are you? You don't look old, but you sound old."

"I sound old?"

"Oh, don't get me wrong, handsome. I like your voice. Nice and husky. And most of the time it's fine. But ..."

"What?"

"Once in a while, when you get really frustrated, you start to sound like someone's great uncle, like you smoke three packs a day and gargle paving stones."

"I don't smoke."

"Heaven forbid you try something relaxing."

"This coming from you."

"What?"

"Hm. Nothing."

"Not nothing. What?"

"You make it sound like I have strange convictions, but you don't smoke either."

"What makes you think I don't smoke?"

"Teeth. Breath. Fingers. Clothes. Other minor details."

"Well I have my reasons. And at least I know other ways to relax."

"I wasn't judging."

"Please. You're always judging. You're Batman."

He grunted.

She continued. "So, your age?"

"I'll give you an approximation."

"Great. Spill."

"I was born within four years of you."

"So you're between twenty-two and thir…Wait. Hold on a second. How do you know my age?"

He shifted gears to navigate a turn.

"I'm Batman."

She rolled her eyes and looked out the window. "Fine, about the cape: you're always running around dirty industrial sites."

"... Yes?"

"Don't you get stains? If the news is right even a tenth of the time, you crawl through a sewer or an assembly line every week. I know first-hand you can't _always_ stay in the dark. Why doesn't anyone see you covered in grease? Or sewage? Or blood?"

"I'm careful."

"Uh-huh."

"And when I **let** witnesses see me, they usually have ... more pressing issues to focus on."

"Come on, talk shop. What's the trick?"

"... The fabric is sprayed with a polymer that repels lipid and water stains for a few hours. Most other substances turn it darker which isn't a problem in the short-term."

"That's neat, but I have a feeling there's more to the story. What's your other trick?"

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"Come on."

"Veto."

"Come on!"

He sighed. "... If needed, the cape is reversible."

"Wait, so there was a time when you got, say, mustard on the cape, but you just turned it around and kept crime-fighting?"

He didn't say anything.

"Well?"

"... It was white paint."

It took a few minutes for Catwoman to stop laughing.

Finally catching her breath, she sat up from his shoulder where she had collapsed and wiped her eye.

"That was beautiful. But wait, you invented a spray that stops stains? Why isn't this in stores?"

"Didn't invent it. Chemists have known for decades. It degrades too quickly to be commercially viable and the formula is too delicate to mass produce. I haven't poisoned myself yet because I'm careful."

"You must be a pretty good chemist."

"Veto."

"That wasn't even a question!"

"Hm."

"So, still no questions for me?"

"No."

"Fine, I might as well trot out the big one."

"Which is?"

"What's your name?"

"Batman."

"No, I mean your actual name. The one on your birth certificate. You weren't born in a cape."

"Veto."

"Come on."

"Veto."

"I knew you would be like this. Just your first name."

"No."

"Whatever it is, there must a thousand guys in the city with the same name."

"Veto."

"I'm committing treason for you!"

"You volunteered. Veto."

He drove in silence for a minute.

Batman finally spoke. "Robert."

"What?" Catwoman's eyes bugged out. "Your name is Robert?"

"I lied. Veto."

She punched him in the ribs.


	7. The Anti-heroes' Guide to Tresspassing

All claims are DC. Please enjoy. Reviews humbly appreciated.

**Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold**

**Chapter 7: The Anti-heroes' Guide to Trespassing**

* * *

Fort Morrison was named after Major Holt Enoch Morrison, unsung hero of the War of 1812, who barricaded the site to stop the advance of the British 46th Regiment soon after the burning of Washington. Though outnumbered eight-to-one, Major Morrison and his three bone-weary companies of Gotham volunteers held the line for sixteen hours before the survivors were encircled and captured.

Almost unanimously, military historians judge the man an idiot.

Besides choosing to make his last stand over a strategically irrelevant mountain pass, at least one of Morrison's platoons was stationed _in front of _his stone barricade, allegedly with orders to stage a bayonet charge. British reports of the engagement suggest that his five mortars were aimed so low that their first volley struck the grove of trees they hid behind. Falling tree limbs crushed three of the mortars and their artillery officer. In the final hour of the engagement, the Major retreated in the wrong direction and was slain during his one-man assault on the British ranks.

As occasionally happens in dynamic times, Major Morrison became a hero in spite of every effort to the contrary. The real reason his men were able to endure for so long was because their particular stretch of the Kahontsi Range featured a peak that happened to be one of the best defensive positions on the continent. The War Department didn't build there out of nostalgia. Fort Morrison sat on a rounded plateau a third of a mile broad, with three sides ending in sheer cliffs and the fourth sloping down in moderate switchbacks just wide enough for a road. A single-lane bridge on the far side connected to a path on the adjacent ridge.

Military men didn't like speaking in absolutes (except occasionally to Congress), but it was widely agreed that the Fort was secure against every conventional threat.

* * *

As the evening continued, it became ever more obvious to Batman and Catwoman that the other was, to put it kindly, unconventional.

"Third drawer. Forensic reagents. Industrial glue. Industrial glue solvent. Magnesium fire starters. Boxes of AA, C, and D batteries. Microscope. Sewing kit. Rebreather. Dry ice. Nylon cord. Hemp rope. Turkish-to-Russian dictionary."

Catwoman interrupted. "When would you need that?"

Batman looked puzzled. "Both languages are spoken by tens of millions. When would you not?"

"Never mind, idiot."

The moon was high in the sky when they arrived. Batman was parked in a dense grove of conifers well beyond the sight of their final dirt road (the coupe had suspiciously rugged suspension). They were nearly invisible, but only a few minutes' hike from the edge of the Fort if his map was right.

Before setting off, Batman cataloged the equipment he kept in the trunk's hidden chamber, in case Catwoman wanted to take any along. She was, to put lightly, amused.

Batman continued. "Fourth drawer. Wireless radio. Snowshoes. Water purifier. State atlas. Backup radio. Bordering states' atlases. Grapnels. Flares. Tire repair kit. Electromagnets. Dynamite. Binoculars. Refried be-"

"Hold up again."

"What?"

"Did you just say those tubes were dynamite?"

"Yes, then collapsible binoc -"

"You keep six sticks of dynamite in the truck of your car?"

"I admit it's not much, but tonight-"

"_Absolutely not what I meant_." Catwoman gestured to the Ford emphatically. "You're saying that the whole time we were driving down those bumpy roads, I was sitting on enough explosives to topple City Hall?"

"That's a gross exaggeration." He thought for a moment and equivocated. "…maybe a small post office."

She groaned and sat on a nearby tree stump. "Do you not hear yourself?"

"These use a nitroglycerin substitute." He lifted a tube up and tapped it sharply. "Perfectly stable."

Catwoman's gazed at him in wide-eyed shock. He mistook her look of shock for confusion and elaborated.

"Nitroglycerin is the active agent in-"

"_I know what Nitroglycerin is!_"

"Good. In the fifth drawer-"

She stood and elbowed him out of the way. "I'll look through the rest on my own, thanks. _And put that dynamite back_!"

"Fine." He stopped tossing the tube between his hands. "In any case, we need to start the climb soon."

She paused. "What climb?"

"You read the report. Our climb up the east cliff face into the Fort."

"Your report said there was an '_ascent_'."

"Yes."

"I thought that meant a trail. A walking trail."

He gave her a look like factual errors were embarrassing things only children and the absent-minded suffered from.

"Then ... you were incorrect."

"Fine, how long did it take you to free climb it the first time?"

"Thirty-six minutes. It's an easy route. You're a proficient climber."

She sighed. "I don't mind being outside on some mountain in December, but I didn't plan on hugging a glacier for half an hour. How's the wind-chill up there?"

"It's a concern."

"Well, as much as I hate playing the damsel in distress, you've probably noticed I'm clad a little light for the occasion." She gestured towards her slim violet outfit, which did look warm but was hardly tundra gear. "Are you sure we don't have any other options?"

"The roads into the Fort are guarded. This is the shortest cliff."

"And you're absolutely sure we can't punch our way through?

"No."

"It's what you usually do."

He growled. She couldn't tell whether it was disapproval or amusement.

"We can't alert the perpetrators. And until we know more, the soldiers are innocents. But I anticipated this. Open the bottom drawer, left side."

Curious, she did so and pulled out…some sort of green, hooded ... poncho?

"Uh, Batman? What's this?"

"Insulation."

"Is that so?"

"It's my fault for not mentioning the climb during our original meeting."

"Got that right."

"So I'm rectifying the situation."

"And your solution was to let me know at the last possible minute that you wanted to play dress-up?"

He looked blankly at her. "Yes."

_Ask a stupid question_, Catwoman thought.

"I don't suppose you considered that a lady in my line of work might be very particular about what she's wearing? You know, to test for balance ahead of time? Or dexterity? Or noise? Any of those sound familiar?"

He crossed his arms. "Try it or don't. We have to get going."

She raised a finger to protest but was interrupted by a gust of bone-chilling wind. It was elementally powerful. They both crouched low to keep from falling. As the wind blew, a wall of powder rushed off the tree limbs with a _hiss_ and coated the landscape. Several eye-watering seconds passed before it finally blew through.

They stood up. Catwoman frowned and struggled to brush the ice crystals off her mask and hair. Batman had a rare frivolous thought: _she looked like a cat!_

He snorted.

Catwoman glared at him. But then she looked at the green outfit again. She wasn't in the mood to put up with more wind. And a hood would be nice if it snowed. The poncho was good material, a wool blend, light and definitely warm. The Bat could be as rude and pompous, but he never did anything halfway. It was even her size (which raised as many questions as it answered) and it did match her eyes (there was no way _that_ was deliberate, right?)

Hmm ...

Well, she could always get rid of it later.

* * *

Several hours earlier.

Like any big organization, the Army had good postings and bad postings. If you were Johnny On The Spot and played your cards right, you could be the lucky GI getting your tan at Pearl Harbor. But if you had bad reports or cut a rug with the wrong dame at the Easter ball, you might find yourself organizing the weekly cleaning of the mule stable in Mosquito Swamp, Mississippi.

Of course, there were certain assignments so strange that no one knew quite how to judge them. Classic military logic dictated that these were given to officers so strange that no one knew quite how to judge them.

Colonel Abner Tanner was aware of this system and didn't like what it implied about him. For the thousandth time, he considered calling up Sam Lane and demanding a reassignment. It wasn't that Fort Morrison itself was unbearable. Yes, it was remote and the weather wasn't ideal, but a man didn't become a colonel in the U.S. Army by being a weak-kneed Nancy. No, he was getting second thoughts because this operation was far too questionable for him to stomach much longer.

For Tanner, that was saying something. Some people were magnets for scandal and most ended up disgraced or hospitalized, but a few of them had a knack for always coming through the mud smelling like daisies. Abner Tanner was the smelliest daisy in the Army. His two decades of service read like a morbid Three Stooges script- showing up at every botched operation and giving testimony at every dishonorable discharge hearing. His career was the repeating story of a man in a train wreck who is miraculously flung clear but lands in another train about to wreck.

This put senior officers in a pickle. Sure, his survival was commendable; who had more integrity than the man who's proven it thirty times? But the sheer volume of bad luck smacked of carelessness. A man could be in the wrong place once or twice, but soon it got suspicious. And no one wanted to be that close to the years of dirty laundry Tanner was wrapped in. He had signed more non-disclosures than he could count. His security clearance was radioactive. The fact that he was a legitimately great officer only made things tougher. He couldn't be sidelined. No, they had to keep promoting the son of a gun. Fortunately, there were always special postings his clearance was uniquely suited for. After all, it's not like another state secret could make him _more_ of a liability.

So when a guy like Colonel Abner Tanner reported that operations at this logistics depot were questionable, "questionable" became Army understatement for "Dr. Moreau-meets-Frankenstein-I thought only the Krauts did this sort of thing-equsue horror."

And now he was being 'persuaded' to order a lock-down. Great.

"Miss Waller, are you absolutely sure this isn't an overreaction? You know I'd sooner sell my mommie to a commie than jeopardize this site, but we can't be up and soiling ourselves over every little shadow."

"Colonel, any firm evidence of intrusion, no matter how isolated, deserves our most thorough attention. I hardly need remind you that secrecy is of the highest priority."

Or, in bureaucrat-speak, _Shut-up, you dunce_.

He didn't respond, there was nothing more to say. He leaned back in his chair and downed a glass of water (it would be scotch without visitors). What self-respecting man let himself get lectured to by a woman? A woman! It was a fundamental insult to the right order of things. Yep, first light tomorrow (or whenever she turned the phones back on), he was calling Sam Lane and getting out of this farce. He breathed deeply and tried to let go of some tension. The maze of wrinkles around his eyes shifted and settled. If Amanda Waller could read his thoughts (she sure acted like it), she didn't seem to care. She smoothly tapped a long, filtered cigarette from its case and lit it with a chrome lighter. Blue smoke hazed over his office, blotting the green lampshade, rolling over the filling cabinets, fading the flag in the corner

Col. Tanner looked past her. Waller's pet bulldog was still relaxing against the wall with his arms crossed. When Amanda Waller arrived months ago, she brought along four valises, three footlockers, two hatboxes, and one "personal assistant": Lt. Slade Wilson. At least the lady made sense, her methods and agenda were obvious, but this one was a mystery. He wore a silver bar like every other lieutenant but was utterly beyond the chain of command. As colonel, Tanner could get him to salute and that was about it. He didn't seem to do much "assisting" either. He never carried Waller's bags or took her dictation (she casually stole his enlisted men for that). No, he just followed her around except certain evenings when strange civilian cars would pick him up to leave the Fort.

He did know that Lt. Wilson was the most naturally threatening person he had ever encountered in a lifetime of meeting cruel and dangerous people. The Lieutenant had the air of a predator, primal and unmistakable. He was incredibly tall, with shoulders as wide as a sequoia. And that impression was just unarmed. He always carried an arsenal of the most blatantly regulation-defying weapons one could imagine. It reminded the Colonel of old photos of Mexican revolutionaries or Russian partisans, figures burdened up to the eyeballs with firepower. To begin with, he always wore a sidearm. Then there were two or three daggers and bayonets strapped to his person. Sometimes there was a Bowie knife on his hip, sometimes a naval saber, sometimes both. When he went out he carried a Thompson or an M1 carbine, usually with an honest-to-God bandolier. Whatever room was left over Wilson reserved for grenades- he invariably carried at least five. The only silver lining in this absurd show of force was that he never took munitions from the Fort's stock; evidently he brought it all himself.

Wherever he came from, however he found himself in Amanda Waller's employ, and whatever he did on his excursions, Col. Tanner was certain it wasn't good.

The Colonel poured himself another glass of water. "At least tell me one thing. You've already led a mighty intense reconnaissance of the grounds and found no other proof of infiltration. But say we implement your very long list of precautions, despite its inconvenience to my subordinates."

Waller scrutinized him with lidded eyes and blew out another plume of smoke. "I didn't hear a question."

"Based solely on this ... _footprint_, how much longer do you think these measures are warranted? A day? Two days? A week? The entire warehouse staff has been reassigned for your manhunt. You've cut communication and closed the roads. Our food _might_ last till the end of the month."

"When I said 'until further notice', Colonel Tanner, I meant precisely that. I will _notify_ you when I feel the threat has passed." She read his sour expression and shifted tack. "Listen, I do what it takes to get results. That's why our mutual superiors trust me. Our _interactions_ would be much smoother if you could too."

"So I should let the men know that it's triple shifts indefinitely?"

She chuckled and put out her cigarette in his ash tray. "Well, I wouldn't phrase it like that. But you're the grand military leader. Try to make it sound ..." she gestured vaguely to his chest of medals, "noble."

* * *

Several hours later.

Some believed that climbing a building and climbing a rock wall were wildly different beasts. As one of the rare few qualified to compare the two, Catwoman didn't think so. Once you understood the surface you were on, they both used the same toolbox of grips and maneuvers. She had heard plenty of other misunderstandings about rock climbing. For example, most laymen assumed it was a game of upper body strength. Not really. The upper body was important, but most of a climber's thrust came from the legs. If you could climb a tall ladder, you could probably manage a basic wall. Hand grips were for holding still while you found a better foothold. Very few routes looked like a long series of pull-ups.

This was good, because Catwoman wasn't in the mood to do pull-ups for half an hour. Climbing a slick wall was slow, climbing an unfamiliar wall was even slower, and managing both in the dark was practically a line at the doctor's office. Batman actually brought a set of headlamps in his big Trunk o' Tricks, but they agreed it wasn't worth being spotted. They proceeded by touch. He went first as he already knew the wall. This helped her more than one might expect: as an expert climber, Catwoman could roughly sense his movements above her and copy them.

What Batman said was right: this was an easy wall. The problem was the wind. Heavy gusts barreled past every few seconds, almost scraping them off the cliff like a chisel against paint flecks. Her new outfit did wonders to help her stay cozy, but the extra weight was awkward, and now was NOT the time for awkward. If she turned a certain way, the hood had a tendency to catch the air like a sail and pull her sideways. To her chagrin, his cape didn't seem to have this problem. Somehow it was fastened to flap in the breeze without pulling on him. Otherwise, it settled onto his shoulders as well as any coat.

About twenty minutes in and halfway up, they crossed a small ledge. It barely offered seven inches of clearance from the wall, but it might as well have been a couch with the world-class poise of a Bat or a Cat. So they sat, staring down into space, balancing on a few inches of stone.

Catwoman rubbed her hands together, trying to get the feeling back for the next twenty minute effort. Batman was motionless beside her, looking every bit the usual gargoyle. The wind passed through, shifting the hem of her green poncho and tugging at the hood. That was starting to get annoying.

She leaned into his ear and spoke up. "Hey, hand me one of those throwing knives you carry around."

He looked at her incredulously. "What?"

"With that bat-shape, you know, the, uh, bat ... boomerangs, the batarangs."

He grunted in amazement. "That's ... actually what I call them."

"Swell. Can you hand one over? Please?"

With a twitch, one instantly appeared in his palm. She made a mental note to figure out how he did that.

The gadget had a tiny hinge that opened into a fine edge four inches long. She took her impromptu knife and, with an uncanny ease considering she was on a cliff, shimmied out of the woolen poncho. The wind almost yanked the garment out of her hand but she held fast and laid it across her lap. Despite him trying to look ever-so-disinterested, she noticed Batman watching her and smirked. With careful deliberation, Catwoman started by slicing off the annoying hood.

Then she realized a dilemma: what to do with it? She went to stuff it into her discreet hip satchel but felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned and saw Batman make an abrupt gesture into space. The implication was pretty clear:

_We'll grab it on the way back. If they're patrolling this far out before then, we'll have bigger problems to worry about._

Catwoman nodded and flung the green cloth, watching it swirl away in the wind, then returned to her work. She was glad to have the batarang; her claws could cut fabric, but they had too little leverage to do the job cleanly.

Another minute and she was done. Catwoman closed the hinge and handed back the weapon. "Thanks."

He nodded. With a twitch, the batarang was gone. She pointed above her and he dutifully turned and began to climb. Before following him, she took a moment to tie on her new green cape.

* * *

Another eighteen minutes of painstaking ascent finally brought them to the edge of the cliff.

In swift movements, the two pulled over the top and dropped prone among some frozen shrubs to scan their surroundings. Batman and Catwoman were so accustomed to darkness that the scattering of tall searchlights was nearly blinding, seeming halos of eerie brightness floating in the distance above the landscape. When Catwoman's vision adjusted, she realized that eight yards in front of her was a towering chain link fence topped with loops of barbed wire. Beyond this, she finally saw Fort Morrison.

The Fort's plateau was a plain of bushes and stunted trees stretching for acres in every direction - all bathed in moonlight. She knew that beyond the edges of her perception was the encampment: lines of tents and cabins, parked trucks and oil drums, and those sturdy watchtowers gleeming above the low canopy.

She heard muttering beside her. "No. No. No. No."

She crawled over. "No?"

Batman was surveying this base through his binoculars. "The cables are down. The towers are manned."

"Cables?" She pulled out her own miniature spyglass.

"The first time I came in, I-"

"Yeah, I remember the report. You climbed a tree and jumped to a telegraph cable. That's how you got over the fence."

He nodded. "Now the cables are gone. And all ten watchtowers are operational."

"Isn't that what they do at night?"

"Last time it was two."

"Are you saying that- ... what are you saying?"

"We've been made. Abort mission."


	8. Arguing on the Rubicon

All claims are DC. Please enjoy. Reviews humbly appreciated.

**Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold**

**Chapter 8: Arguing on the Rubicon**

* * *

Batman's first trip into Fort Morrison lasted sixteen minutes. He had a lot to do, but a good detective always made time for the details.

For example, isolation and lack of domestic amenities meant families obviously did not live on the base. This was rare; the nation was at peace and military sites were largely settled communities. The Army didn't publish details on Fort Morrison - they hardly admitted it existed – but it was simple for the Dark Knight to narrow down which parts of the regional battalions weren't living with families using public records. He compared these with the patches he spied inside the Fort to determine who was home. This short list became a manpower estimate by counting barracks and latrines.

Batman considered his first trip into Fort Morrison a failure. He never said it was useless.

Best estimate: between 160 and 180 long-term occupants. The remarkable thing was that it was a hybrid camp. There were soldiers from at least two infantry companies, a G-4 logistics team out of Texas (almost certainly meaning R&D), a military police company, and the Surgeon General's Office, and those were just the units he was certain of. This sort of blended operation was next to unheard of for the stratified Army. You didn't cherry pick personnel from across the armed forces to run some pet program in the middle of nowhere. Not without a signed letter from the ghost of George Washington delivered by an archangel. Whoever brought them together had cleared bureaucratic hurdles the size of the Grand Tetons. The perpetrators obviously had major league clout, the kind that could make them untouchable if they saw him coming. Not that he needed another reminder

One of the bigger mysteries in the case was the officer they stuck in charge. The commander of Fort Morrison was a colonel, which on its own demonstrated that the undertaking merited a colonel, a rank that usually commanded thousands. A little research showed that the man had a _shockingly_ checkered past. Scandal had a way of guiding a person's professional options, so this smelled like a rich vein for insight into the Fort's plans. But the colonel, Abner Tanner, had a hand in so many random and disastrous programs over the years that Batman couldn't decide which he was employed for.

As much as this whetted Batman's curiosity, he was keenly aware that the site was still a powder keg: nearly two hundred armed threats in what was effectively a few city blocks. And security only tightened closer to its secrets. The Dark Knight had spent time in a few war zones back in his wandering years. In his experience, soldiers weren't necessarily better sentries than criminals on an individual level; both knew their environment and had the same incentives to pay attention to it. But soldiers were much better than criminals at working as a team. Gaps in the Fort's guards would be few and far between. And they would be exceedingly quick at setting up a perimeter and turning the place upside-down if he was spotted.

With the element of surprise, it was a high-risk venture that demanded the utmost caution and stealth.

Without the element of surprise, well…

* * *

"No. No. No. No."

On an scale of alarm from one to ten, with a one measuring him resting in his cave and a nine being shot at while disarming a bomb, the evening had commenced at a low two. There was a brief jump when Catwoman found his protocol stash. Climbing the rock wall in the dark nudged near a solid four. When he saw the Fort and realized something was off, the needle went unstuck and floated loosely upward as he struggled to put the pieces together. When he realized what was wrong his alarm spiked to a seven. He had once skydived with a stuck parachute and hadn't reached seven.

"-All ten watchtowers are operational."

"Isn't that what they do at night?"

"Last time it was two."

He took a deep, meditative breath. This was bad news.

The public thought Batman was invincible. The truth was he was merely very shrewd at picking his battles.

"We've been made. Abort mission."

* * *

Catwoman was the epitome of a cool customer; Kitty didn't sweat when the cards were on the table. However, her gut said something was off. She lived by very few rules, but she always followed her intuition.

"We've been made. Abort mission."

The Dark Knight rose to a low crouch and turned around.

"_Batman,_" Catwoman hissed after him. "_Wait, Batman!_"

"I'll tie a rappel line. Stay down. Watch my back."

It was spoken in his regular flat affect, but Catwoman was getting pretty good at the subtle tones of Bat-speak. For example, those subtle tones were now saying the big guy was worried. This was bad news.

"_Stop!_ _Hey!_"

Catwoman wasn't as flamboyant as some of her peers on the GCPD's dispatch bulletins (she didn't kidnap the mayor or install vats of acid in her home), but she certainly had a reputation: sly, flirty, easygoing, an eye for the finer things, a well-adjusted sense of humor (exceedingly rare among night-types), world-class gams, and a touch of kleptomania.

Most flirty girls who worked at night weren't brain surgeons. Words like "airhead" were tossed around. Catwoman couldn't care less what random strangers thought about her, but she happened to be a very gifted lady. Even ignoring her technical skills and obvious classical education, no idiot could go toe-to-toe with Batman more than once and get away with it. In Gotham that was a law of physics.

So, being the intelligent sort, Catwoman was more than a tad surprised that the Caped Crusader, a force of convictions so steady one could set a watch by them, was doing the unthinkable and retreating (without consulting her again, for the record). Seeing Batman run away was like seeing a solar eclipse or a lion snorkeling - every fiber of her being screamed it was utterly against the natural order of things.

As for her, one couldn't say quite what made Catwoman tick. A healthy young woman who hid outside a military installation in an animal costume on a whim was not the easiest psyche to unpack. Freud would've had a field day. Or a conniption.

Still, a few issues certainly fed her current attitude. For instance, Catwoman thrived on professional pride. The night she let a few guards and a fence stop her from getting her prize was the night she hung up the claws. Her recent string of rotten luck wasn't helping matters - first the Nelson Stones, then the Ataturk Arabesques, and then that fiasco at the Cairo Exhibition. Her lifetime record still made her Hall of Fame material seven times over, but you were only as good as your last heist. In her mind, a lady made her own luck, and she made it by being so audacious that luck couldn't help but stand and applaud.

The fact that Batman wanted to leave (and was ordering her around in the process) certainly gave her more than enough incentive to be contrary. And if the evening was a success, she could rub it in his face. What greater reward was there?

Besides, she was certainly NOT in the mood to climb down that cliff again. She was just starting to get the feeling back into her fingers.

Okay, and maybe she was angry for the sake of that poor couple who were mercilessly killed by the monsters they were after. She wasn't heartless.

Still, Catwoman wasn't shaken by Batman's change of plans. Nope, not her. The Feline Femme Fatale was cool as a cucumber and confronted her new partner with an eloquence and suavity befitting such dignity.

* * *

Batman felt an urgent tugging on his cape. He ignored it. Then he felt a snowball smack the back of his neck.

He turned sharply. "What?"

She hissed in his ear. "_What the Hell is going on?!_"

Catwoman was either livid or frightened. He wasn't sure which made the situation worse.

"I said it's over. The Fort's on alert. We can't risk it."

"How could they possibly see us coming?"

He grimaced. "Not sure. Doesn't matter."

He returned to work. A gust of wind swirled up eddies of loose snow. Catwoman pulled her green cape tighter and grabbed his shoulder. "Hold on just a sec-"

He curtly pushed her hand away. "Don't worry. You'll get your pay."

Catwoman blinked. Her mouth fell open very slowly. That was the wrong thing to say.

Rage is a funny feeling. Sometimes it froths out all at once, but sometimes the vitriol is so thick it collapses under its own gravity and stays hidden. A bystander wouldn't see anything but mild surprise in her features. A shrewd observer like Batman might have noticed something was wrong, but he was distracted.

She briefly entertained the thought of kicking him off the cliff. It warmed her up a little. But this was Batman. He'd survive somehow, the git. And then she'd have to climb down without a guide.

Batman had taken a knee and was busy forcing a spike into the icy ground. She crept behind him and, in a fluid motion, grabbed his other thigh and pulled it backwards. He flopped onto his stomach in a very un-Batman-like way. He recovered in a flash and rolled onto his back, where she was already crouched over him.

Given the circumstances (and the fact that his head was hanging a few inches over the cliff), she had to admire his poise. He looked up at her coolly. "Fine. What's your concern?"

"You're Batman."

He gave her a look. "And?"

"And wouldn't you remember if someone saw you?"

"...I can make mistakes."

"Mistakes big enough to warrant _that_?" She pointed behind her at the array of watchtowers. "A week later?"

He paused. "It's unlikely. Could be for an unrelated security breach. Could be a drill. But the consequences are the same. Too dangerous."

"I thought you had guts."

"I did until you sat on them."

Catwoman glanced down at their current... configuration. She was the furthest thing from bashful, but her point was made. She moved off of him.

"I read your report. You have other ways in, other exits. And they were good! I think we can still do this."

He rose to a knee and didn't respond.

She pushed her point home. "Be honest. If we leave now, what are the odds you can still bring a solid case to the Powers that Be against these wastes of oxygen?"

"The perpetrators are leaving evidence and making enemies with the City," He pondered for a moment. "Given enough time, moderately likely."

"And what are the odds that 'enough time' is before the next nice couple is murdered?"

He stiffened. People under tension normally shift or twitch, but his taunt muscles were perfectly still. Ever so slowly, his head swiveled to meet hers. Catwoman had received countless Bat-glares, but this one was different. It wasn't a glare of suspicion or disapproval or anger. It was a look of hate. Hate to boil the oceans to steam. Hate to melt sand into glass. Not hate at her necessarily (at least she hoped not), but at...life - at humanity.

Gotham criminals loved to argue over why the Bat didn't kill, but Catwoman never found the question interesting. The answer seemed obvious to her - whatever inflated altruism gene made him choose to risk his life every night also compelled him to take the moral high ground in everything, as easily as he breathed.

Seeing him now, she suspected that his self-restraint didn't come quite so naturally.

Catwoman crossed her arms. It was easy to miss on the playful surface, but she had a cord of stubbornness in her as deep as the roots of an oak. And it took every inch, but she stood her ground and looked him in the eye...lense.

"Well?"

His intensity evaporated in a heartbeat, as if it was never there. He responded with typical cold indifference.

"More victims mean more loose ends to tie to the guilty parties. But we can't take advantage of that if we're the victims. We're going home."

Catwoman frowned and sucked in a deep breath of courage. She did have one ultimatum left. She _reeeeaally_ hoped this worked.

"You're wrong, handsome. _We're_ not doing anything. You can drive off in your little car, but I'm going inside."

"You're not prepared for-"

"See this face?" she pointed at herself. "It's the face of someone who doesn't care. It's also the face of the best thief in the business. Get in touch in a few days and I'll show you what I find. Bye."

Catwoman stood up out of the frozen bushes and strode away, following the curve of the chain-link fence. Batman stared after her and muttered something unflattering. Sometimes he _really_ hated night-types.

He turned and examined his rappel spike.

* * *

Fifty-seven seconds later.

The pair walked side-by-side along the margin between the fence and the cliff. Catwoman secretly grinned. As they sloshed through the ankle-deep slush, she snickered, "I bet this is the closest thing to a date you've had in a long time."

Batman briefly recalled the hundred and twenty-four evenings spent with female company since the beginning of the year. "Something like that."

They eventually reached one of the maintenance gates: small entrances placed every few hundred yards and locked from the inside.

"Alright. You were eager to be here, now how do you want to get in?"

"I assume we still can't cut holes in the fence and make our lives easier?"

"We leave no evidence."

"Well, I was intrigued by ingress route four."

He frowned in confusion. "We didn't bring a ladder."

"I was thinking of adding a little improvisation."

"There's timber here, but it would take half an hour to build a ladder."

"Are you willfully ignoring what I mean or just much stupider than everyone thinks?"

He grunted. "It's a foolish idea."

"It's the quickest idea."

"Quickest to lacerations."

"You of all people should know what I'm capable of."

He grunted but eyed her analytically, methodically observing from head to toe. She took the opportunity for a cheeky pose: foot turned inward, one hand on a hip, the other behind her head.

"Even for you, the margin of error would be just over a handspan."

"Sounds like my problem."

"Not if you get stuck in the barbed wire. Then it's my problem and your hospital stay."

"Ahhhh, that's sweet. Would you visit me?"

"With a court summons."

"Less sweet. Can't we just pole vault?"

"The pole would stand as evidence. We'll do ingress route nine."

"Please, we'll never find that many falcons. We're doing four."

With that, Catwoman paced to the edge of the cliff, turned around, and learned into a sprinter's stance.

"Catwoman, this is unnecessary."

She took a deep breath. "You better get ready!"

"Stop."

She kicked off.

"STOP!"

Pumping her arms, Catwoman sped forward. In a blink, she was at the fence. Batman huffed in resignation. He had dealt with worse situations. With a swift motion, he bent his knees and anchored his hands at his abdomen like he was hefting an invisible shot put. With her final step, Catwoman leapt forward. For a heartbeat, she stood in his palms. Then Batman pushed skywards with a Herculean burst.

Catwoman, already racing forward at eye-watering speed, rocketed into the air. With balletic grace, she swiveled into a languid high jump pose. Then, gently as a feather, she glided just above the highest loops of the barbed wire, kicked her trailing leg over, cape fluttering in the slipstream, and began to fall.

The way down wasn't so elegant.

"_OW!_"

"Not so loud."

Catwoman gingerly stood up. Someone was in store for a bruised hip tomorrow.

"I think I landed on a thistle."

"Get the gate."

"I'm going, I'm going."

Catwoman made remarkably short work of the lock on the maintenance gate. Batman stepped through and she relocked it behind him.

"Told you it would work!"

He nodded begrudgingly as they set off.

* * *

For the serious infiltrator, there were many advantages to operating in a city. The shadows of elaborate skylines to slink under. Walls and dumpsters to hide behind. The mazes of narrow alleys, abandoned buildings, and forgotten tunnels to pursue or lose pursuit in. A million hidden nooks to lie in wait. Plenty of smog, steam, and smoke to obscure the figure. And a vertical dimension unseen anywhere else.

That said, when it came to sheer concealment per square inch, it was hard to beat the vegetation of a low forest. In the eyes of two masters of the art such as Batman and Catwoman, this was paradise. They glided like ghosts through the icy underbrush - never cracking a branch, rarely shifting a leaf. Neither led the other; they moved as two extensions of the same mind, wordlessly flowing to the smoothest path. A soft and heavy snow began to fall, muffling what little noise they made.

Some might assume their outfits were ill-suited to the task. This was a misconception. The dark greys and blues of the Bat-suit were actually excellent against white snow, an optical trick known to winter warriors for millennia. Catwoman's violet and green ensemble, though striking up close, was a muted color and fine camouflage in the forest.

After several silent minutes, they came to a dirt trail. They followed beside it, staying several yards inside the woods. As they rounded a curve, they heard voices ahead of them. The two infiltrators instantly dissolved further into the brush and crouched down. The bushes ahead were getting sparse and small, and the lights of the distant watchtowers were growing brighter; they couldn't risk sneaking ahead here. They would have to wait.

The voices were soon joined by bodies. Three soldiers crunched leisurely through the fresh snow. They wore heavy coats and cradled rifles in their arms.

As they passed by, one soldier held up a hand to stop his compatriots. He glanced around slowly. Batman and Catwoman, a stone's throw away, tensed behind their cover.

The soldier put down his arm and nodded. "This'll work."

Without further ado, the soldier slung his rifle on his back, then faced a tree on the opposite edge of the trail and unzipped his trousers.

The sounds of nature commenced.

Batman and Catwoman collectively exhaled. The two unoccupied soldiers looked around idly and began to chat.

"So Sarge, I hear you and Iris split."

"Aye, you know how it is: we starting hating each other faster than we could lower our standards. S'fer the best."

"S'not like maintaining any sort o' emotional bond s'easy when we hardly get a weekend of leave every month."

"Ain't that the God's honest."

"Mm-yep."

The soldier relieving himself spoke up, "And can you believe this now? Triple shifts! Over some bootprint," Batman and Catwoman shared a meaningful glance, "If they wanted to put me in the dirt, I'd prefer a cigarette and a blindfold. Damn that Waller!"

This was met with coarse laughter. "Sarge" had a look of sudden insight.

"That ain't a bad idea, Hershey."

"What, damning Waller? I think that's St. Peter's job."

"No, lunkhead. As Sergent, I order this column at ease to support a tobacco-based morale initiative."

The two not facing a tree chuckled and dug out old, bent cigarettes.

"Need a light, Denunzio?"

"Nah, Sarge. I'm good."

They each pulled out long-stem matches and lit their flames against the falling snow.

Denunzio coughed. "Jeez, Hershey! Was your momma a racehorse? You've been there a minute."

"Shove it up your ear, Denunzio."

The Sarge frowned. "Hey! You boys know the rules. No bringing mothers into things."

"Sorry, Sarge."

"Sorry, Sarge."

"That's right. But he's got a point. Are you all right, Private Hershey? Should I be callin' a medic?"

"Nah, Sarge. I drank two pots of coffee at supper when I heard about the new hours."

Denunzio nodded sagely. "Coffee's gonna mess with your sleep, buddy. None for me. Hate getting up early."

Hershey finished and zipped up. "I thought you grew up on a farm."

"Yeah, and I left!"

"You didn't like waking up early so you left...to join the Army?"

"Seemed like a good idea at the time. Speaking of, any idea who'd sneak into camp?"

Hershey nodded. "It's got to be Jerry. The Krauts got spies all over, see? Snooping on our science for their war machines."

"For my two cents, it's the commies. No question."

The Sarge shook his head slowly. "You boys's both backwards. Some son of a gum buck private was tip-toeing 'round past when he should'a been and made that print, and now he's too afraid to speak up.

Hershey disagreed, "But Sarge, the boots weren't general issue."

"Well, then I suppose he had another pair of boots!"

"What sort of bad business would a guy want to hide so much that he'd let this happen?"

"I don't know. Maybe...littering?"

"Littering."

Denunzio interjected, "Yeah, that's the circle of life!"

Sarge scratched his forehead, "Denunzio, what's a 'circle of life'? Is'zat fancy speak for something?"

"You know, the circle of life! People make trash..."

"Alright."

"Trash...um...makes...rats."

"Okay."

"And...rats...make...people."

"Rats make people."

"Yeah. People make trash, trash makes rats, and rats make people - circle of life."

"Denunzio, shut your pie hole."

"So's your old man, Hershey."

"Bah."

Their grunting and spitting lasted a long while, as men in repose are inclined, until their smokes finally dimmed.

* * *

From the beginning of this chat, the Dark Knight forcibly suppressed a headache.

As an unseen judge of the streets, Batman spent a tremendous number of his waking hours in surveillance. It was a vital task, and his ironclad worldview insisted that vital tasks stood beyond resentment or criticism. He could never consciously admit to anything but complete respect for the job in all its challenges. That said, surveillance was terrible. Catching six seconds of incriminating admission usually meant enduring forty minutes of inane chatter. As a genius and an introvert, he found the casual stupidity of strangers a special kind of purgatory.

One of the subtlest nuances in the mind of the Bat was that, while he was entirely _serious_, he wasn't entirely _mature_. The two traits looked so much alike that the distinction was next to invisible (and presently only recognized by a single old friend), but it was there. For instance, while Batman couldn't hate the surveillance itself, he was more than happy to mock the mouth-breathers he had to watch.

As the trio of Nobel laureates talked about coffee or sleeping habits or some other dreck, he gave an exhale of disdain.

_Imbeciles_.

Catwoman, lying a few inches away, gave a half-nod towards the three.

_ I know, right?_

Batman was briefly stunned. Having worked alone for so long he was used to his thoughts going unanswered. Forgetting himself, Batman enthusiastically lifted his shoulders.

_It's ridiculous. Have they passed the third grade?_

Catwoman rested her cheek sardonically on two fingers.

_If so, this is my tax dollars at work._

He gave the quietest grunt.

_Like you pay taxes._

She glared with pointed reproach.

_Hey, I'm not an anarchist. Someone has to keep the roads paved and the kids in school. Besides…_

They shrugged in unison.

_...That's how they got Capone._

She smiled at him bemused and looked away. Batman paused in rare astonishment. He knew abstractly that Catwoman spent time in surveillance, but it never occurred to him that they would ever share gripes about it. That was bizarre. But he had to admit, having someone to _heckle_ with was…well…an unusually welcome experience.

* * *

After an interminable wait, the patrol finally ended their smoke break and continued down the trail. Batman and Catwoman waited until the three were well out of sight before they cautiously left cover. Restless now, they slipped through the snowy brush at a bolder pace.

It wasn't long before the scenery rapidly thinned out. They could see a short clearing, and beyond it the main camp of Fort Morrison. The site was surrounded by a low ring of barbed wire backed by piles of sandbags. Lines of tight-set cabins were wedged into a sad mimicry of "streets" which were laid in a grid like a small town. Between the moon, the snow, and the spotlights, the buildings were cast in a sterile gray twilight.

Catwoman whistled, "It's like the love child of Santa's village and a gulag."

Having once been in a gulag, Batman agreed. He grabbed his binoculars and observed the area.

"The sandbags are new."

"What do you think that means?"

"Not sure. Fences and barbed wire are just obstacles to deter trespassers. They presume the guards can win any real confrontation."

"And sandbags?"

"Sandbags don't stop people, they stop munitions. A tactician would only lay sandbags if he expected to be attacked by a force that might outgun his own."

"So someone thinks Fort Morrison is about to be invaded?"

"Evidently."

"Who could possibly be the threat? Canada?"

"I don't know."

* * *

Meanwhile.

At the base of the mountain, another squad crunched through the forest with considerably less stealth. Cold and sleepy, they didn't expect to see so much as a chipmunk. This was the second night of patrols beyond the Fort and no one was happy about it.

As the grumpy patrol stumbled down a small hill, a tired corporal thought he saw a strange glint of color in a stand of evergreens. He called this out and the group lazily halted.

The corporal pushed aside some heavy branches and peered ahead with his flashlight.

It fell to the dirt. In front of him sat a humble Ford Model 48 hardtop. Beige.


	9. Army Life

All claims are DC. Please enjoy. Reviews humbly appreciated.

**Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold**

**Chapter 9: Army Life**

* * *

Sneaking was a strange skill. It was an act any child could do but very few professionals excelled at. By definition, finding a good teacher was next to impossible. Even if they wanted to be found, most masters of the art couldn't publicize as they didn't operate on the friendly side of the law, and the handful that were government-approved had even harsher restrictions on taking an apprentice. Trying to learn on your own was even more perilous. Sneaking was sort of like warfare or romance, there was no way to practice the real thing safely. Doing it right meant putting your neck on the line. Otherwise, you weren't learning.

As a result, the field of expertise for sneaking was terribly small and exceedingly steep. Only a handful of questionable personalities wanted to learn in the first place, the attrition rate for amateurs was devastating, and anyone who survived long enough to get really good had every reason to keep that knowledge to themselves.

One side-effect of this was that no one knew what great sneaking looked like. The odds of having a friendly neighbor or a talkative great aunt who was also a secret agent was extraordinarily small; this was just a somber fact of life. By contrast, a typical person could watch the Olympics to discover, for example, roughly how fast a human could run. But sneaking had no Olympics; there was no popular wisdom on what was possible. It would be as if people only saw running during grade school recess, unaware that an elite cadre of Olympic sprinters hid throughout the world. If a bystander ever saw such a sprinter perform, they would be in awe, for they would be witnessing the impossible.

This shock was an ancient response; the masters of stealth were always seen as supernatural. However, they were not. The Ninja couldn't actually turn invisible or command the weather. The Hashashian couldn't actually leap castle battlements or rise from the dead. And Batman couldn't actually smell your fear.

Nor could he expect to cross sixty yards of empty dirt without being seen. Not without a really good plan.

* * *

Hiding prone, Batman scanned the landscape.

In his favor, it was an unseasonably dark night, or what he called dark-seventeen. A measurer at heart, Batman invented a private scale to judge darkness years ago. It ranged from zero to sixty-zeta. The calibrations were based on lumens and vector combinations. Suffice it to say, the math was extensive.

Also in his favor, the snowfall was getting thick; he guessed four inches an hour. Though the wind wasn't as fierce here as it was on the cliff face, it was enough to slant the precipitate at a nice diagonal. As a rule of thumb, the more chaotic motion there was in an environment, the harder a moving person was to spot.

To his detriment, there was a tower nearby whose spotlight was meandering across the ground without a pattern. Almost every challenge Batman faced could be negated with enough cunning, but there were a handful of risks he simply couldn't avoid. He could never be sure a roofing tile would hold his weight. He couldn't guarantee that some punk in an alley wouldn't get a lucky shot with a concealed .32. And he had no way of preventing a distant spotlight from casually crossing his path.

Also to his detriment, it seemed like the camp was illuminated with hanging lamps and long strings of lights. It was so dark on the empty ground that he could conceivably sprint across (presuming the tower didn't spot him), but everything within spitting distance of the camp was as well lit as a bunch of cabins could be. There was no standing sentry, but soldiers ambled past every few moments. Those last steps would be the most difficult by far.

Catwoman was also spying on the camp. She nudged his elbow

"Are you sure this is the _least_ protected side?"

"Unfortunately."

"Great."

"At least we have the snow to our advantage."

Catwoman shivered. "That's one way of looking at it."

"It conceals movement and covers tracks. If we wait two hours, we could move under the accumulation."

"So you want to crawl through half a football field of snow on the chilliest night of the year?"

"Th-"

"Don't answer that."

* * *

The four men of Baker squad surrounded the Ford hardtop like an ancient tribe finding a fallen spacecraft.

Corporal Benjamin Greene, the discoverer of the car, poked at a tire with a stick.

"So…this isn't supposed to be here, right?"

Lieutenant Harrison Stephens exhaled slowly and counted backwards from ten. He didn't consider himself a proud man, but leading a dinky patrol through the woods after midnight on a snipe hunt seemed like a task beneath a lieutenant's notice. He should be reviewing his whole platoon, or at least getting some sleep, but they were all on patrols as well, and orders said all personnel of this duty shift were out in the field. That included him. One might think that actually finding something worth reporting would change his attitude. It did not; it just meant more paperwork.

Corporal Greene saw the expression in the Lieutenant's face. "I'm going to guess that's a negatory."

The Lieutenant slowly nodded.

* * *

"You realize that if this doesn't work, not only do we die, we die looking stupid."

"The path is clear."

"Good. I just wanted that on record."

"Ready?"

"In a fatalistic sort of way."

"Go."

In a recent survey among Gothamites who believed the so-called Bat Man existed (roughly 17%), only half thought that he had a cape. The other half was split between those who said it was a set of wings, some sort of eldritch appendage, or that his entire body was an amorphous and fluid shadow form. Among the cape theorists, almost all the respondents believed he wore it for the same reason that thespians, kings, circus strongmen, and luchadores did: to look impressive.

This was true, and it did, but Batman never carried a tool with only a single purpose. The cape had many other uses. Ironically, its second use was to _not_ be seen. In a dim environment, the human eye didn't perceive people, it perceived silhouettes. If a shape that looked like a person appeared in one's field of vision, the eye was so familiar with the human figure that it would alert the conscious mind instantly. But a shape that looked nothing like a person could go unnoticed for minutes. And the cape was excellent at breaking the outline of one's figure.

At the moment, two loose triangles hovered low over the empty field outside Fort's Morrison's encampment.

Some people thought Catwoman was shameless. This was untrue. For instance, crouch-walking towards a military base with her back hunched low and her arms out like a child pretending to be an airplane made her very ashamed.

Technically, crawling would be even more discreet, but veterans of the craft like Batman and Catwoman knew there were harsh tradeoffs in taking it slow. Spending a long time out in the open was very bad. A new work shift could send a patrol of guards though or the weather might turn against them. No, a moderate risk recognized was almost always better than a cautious unknown.

Even at their steady pace, the yards soon passed and they found themselves within vaulting distance of the barricade. Without a word, Batman stood and took three swift steps. He leaped over the barbed wire loop and landed gently on the pile of sandbags. Not stopping, the Dark Knight sped forward, crossed the empty lane, and climbed onto the low roof of the first cabin. Finding a shadow to hide in, he looked back and nodded.

The choice to stagger their approach was obvious. If the first across was caught by a hidden threat, the second could retreat unseen. Though that precaution seemed moot now, the coast was clear. _And not a moment too soon_, Catwoman mused, _that spotlight's wandering awfully close. _

She stood and prepared to leap, but at the last moment Batman shook his head and pointed down. In a blink, Catwoman fell and hugged the snow. A few seconds later, a pair of soldiers rounded a corner and marched gradually towards her. She had dropped just in time. Separated by eleven feet of dim lamplight and a few sandbags, Catwoman breathed very slowly and willed herself to not be seen. She shifted her head to the side. The beam of the spotlight was arcing towards her.

_Great_.

Batman coolly watched this from his rooftop perch. Whatever happened, it would be over in seconds. He readied two batarangs and leaned forward.

She knew there was no point in moving backwards, the beam was too wide. The only place the light wouldn't catch her was inside the camp. She could sense the two soldiers moving past, but they were going too slowly. They wouldn't pass in time.

With numbed serenity, Catwoman watched the spotlight get closer and closer. _Thirty feet. Twenty feet. Ten feet. Five feet._

With the glow edging the hem of her splayed cape, she shot to her feet, took one bounding step, and dived…

…And landed in a handstand, wedged in those precious inches between the sandbags and the barbed wire. Propped upside down, her eye was a millimeter from a line of metal hooks. She dared not breathe. On the other side she head the footsteps stop, sensed bodies turning. Her legs! She refused to be caught because her feet were sticking out like carrot sprouts.

With a final steadying exertion, Catwoman stretched her legs apart into a perfectly-balanced side split, her calves dipping just below the top of the barrier.

* * *

Minutes earlier.

"Alright. Jenkins, Nowitzki, hoof it up to the Fort and tell them what we found. They'll ask you for details. Tell them you don't know any because I didn't want you to wait. Greene and I will be along when we find out more."

"You got it, Lieutenant." "Sure thing, Lieutenant."

"Great. Double-time it, but keep an eye out, we don't know who drove here, but I got an itch he ain't friendly."

Privates Jenkins and Nowitzki did an about-face and jogged up the hill. Lieutenant Stephens watched them leave. He took his cap off and idly brushed away the snow.

Corporal Greene stood respectfully nearby. "Now what, sir?"

"That's a very good question. We have ourselves a car that managed to drive through this rocky forest nearly a tenth of a mile, presuming it arrived from that dirt path just south of here. The doors are locked and the windows are somehow tinted. I'm no mechanic, but tinted windows are a luxury feature."

"As far as I know, sir."

"As it happens, both the locks and the tinting make it very difficult to know what's inside. I suspect that may be intentional."

"We could break open a window."

"We could. But we live in strange times, Corporal Greene. A great many things are possible, a number of those things outrank us, and quite of few of those things would get angry if we bashed up their automobile."

"Oh. What then?"

"Do you know how to jimmy open a car lock?"

"No."

"Neither do I. This is what the philosophers call a quandary"

* * *

There were many feats that separated the true athlete from the dilettante: the marathon, the iron cross, the home run, the one-handed pushup. Catwoman wasn't sure where her current pose fell in those rankings, but it had to be awfully impressive because holding it steady was the most tiring move she had tried in a long time. If she leaned forward ten degrees, she would fall onto barbed wire. If she leaned backward ten degrees, she would bounce off a wall of burlap and fall onto barbed wire. If her arms buckled, she would hit her head on the ground and then fall onto barbed wire. She had to keep her handstand split perfectly upright and perfectly stationary.

Now the blood was rushing to her head. Her hamstrings were beginning to ache, and her fingers were getting very cold. She waited as long as she could bear, then she waited a little longer. Catwoman could hardly hear her own breath now; there was no way to tell if the soldiers had passed. She couldn't wait any longer. Gingerly lifting her feet, she tried to find traction on the top of the pile. With an errant slip, her whole body wobbled, bringing her stomach and chest and nose distressingly close to an impromptu piercing. Catwoman wasn't going to try that twice. She resumed balance with a classic knees-bent handstand and tried to think of a plan.

Despite her fatigue, Catwoman sensed a Bat the moment before he whispered.

"Catwoman."

She took a deep breath. Just responding might have knocked her over. This was embarrassing.

"They're gone," he muttered quietly above her.

She idly wondered how awkward it was for him, having to talk to her butt. Catwoman snorted. She wished she could see the look on his face. It probably didn't even register; if anyone could be stoically humorless enough to take her predicament at face value, well, he was the best candidate she knew.

"You can get up."

_Thanks for that sterling insight._ She closed her eyes. After a moment of struggle, she slowly hissed, "I ... Can't ... Move."

She felt a motion above her and found herself airborne.

In a move reminiscent of a figure skater's lift or the net hefting of a crab fisherman, Batman gripped Catwoman around the legs and stomach and plucked her up, sliding her past the wire without a scratch and landing her upright beside him. She fell back on the sandbags, trying to get her bearings with old-fashioned gravity.

He glanced at her. "Hurt?"

"Huh? Uh, no. Just give me a sec-"

"Good. Let's move."

He turned and raced back up the adjacent roof. She struggled but jogged after him. A few careful leaps later and they made it to the top of an empty mess hall well inside the camp. They hid between a pair of smokestacks on the second floor, far from any lights.

"We'll rest and reorient here."

"That's nice. And thanks, uh, you know, for the save."

He gave a brief head-tilt. "That was clever evasion at the barrier. Unorthodox."

She leaned forward and grinned. "I _am_ pretty flexible."

"I agree, impressive lateral thinking."

She sat back and blinked.

"... Wow."

"What?"

"Nothing."

* * *

"Anything?"

"Hard to say. Can I get out of here, sir?"

"You have something better to do?"

"Permission to speak freely?"

"Sure, Corporal Greene, speak away."

"All this snow is soaking my trousers, Lieutenant. The moisture is cooling into very abrasive frost crystals. I am literally freezing my butt off." He coughed. "Sir."

"Where you from, Corporal?"

"Florida, sir. This is the second time I've seen snow."

"This year?"

"In my life."

"Fine. Get out of there."

"Thank you very much, sir."

"Whatever."

After running out of other ideas to try, Lieutenant Harrison Stephens had ordered his subordinate to search under the car for gaps or identifying markings that might help them enter the Ford or learn more about it. Corporal Benjamin Greene had politely tried to explain that underneath a modern car one simply found floor panels, parts of the frame, elements of the drive train, exhaust pipes, and other unhelpful bits of metal. None of those would offer meaningful information. The Lieutenant retorted that he wasn't "a car guy" and didn't give "a hoot".

Corporal Greene had the rail thin frame often seen in young Army men and was able, with a great degree of discomfort, to fit just below the vehicle. Likewise, now he was shimmying out from under the mysterious Ford. With a final squeeze, Greene's last leg popped out. He unsteadily stood up, flipped off his flashlight, and stretched.

"Whew! That was ... that was something. I'm not a big fan of tiny ... uh ... tiny places. They make me, um ..."

"Are you saying you're claustrophobic, soldier?"

"I don't know, sir. What's that mean?"

"Never mind. So you're certain there's no way in?"

"I'm positive, sir."

"And you didn't notice anything useful? Anything at all?"

"I'm not awfully familiar with the nitty-gritty on these sorts of machines, sir, but I will say the suspension was peculiar."

"How?"

"I thought most mid-sized cars had the springs and shock absorbers to fit mid-sized cars."

"What do the springs on this one fit?"

The Corporal shrugged.

"Maybe the Eiffel Tower."

* * *

The security business had many useful contradictions. For instance, most institutions had a thick shell of scrutiny at some arbitrary perimeter, but if you made it past that perimeter you could look around unopposed even though this made you closer to whatever or whomever was being protected. Guarded buildings cared very much about the people going in and very little about what the people already inside were doing. On the inside, a clipboard and a busy attitude could get you just about anywhere. Catwoman found that the last leg of an infiltration was also the easiest surprisingly often. This was certainly true in her occasional civilian disguises, but even in costume, the occupants of a so-called "secure zone" just paid less attention.

Like so many things, that contradiction was unfortunately not proving to be the case tonight. Coming in, she had seen plenty of guards. As she ventured further, she saw even more guards. And she wasn't saying any soldier walking around outside tonight night a guard (although this was functionally true), she was only counting the big ones standing deliberately at street corners and the doors of big buildings, perpetually frowning into the middle-distance. If the trend continued, the center of camp would be a hundred armed men waiting shoulder-to-shoulder in a big square.

... Which, come to think of it, was actually a thing the military did regularly.

_Ulgh,_ this place was unsettling_._ She was already sick of prefabricated structures, stenciled signs, the strangely omnipresent smell of rubber (_there couldn't possibly be that many tires around_), and the color khaki. In the faint glow of the moon and the weak lamps below, it wasn't hard to discreetly traverse the roofs and empty courtyards of the strange environment. True, the snow was slick and all the single story architecture in their corner of the camp made concealment a challenge (the warehouses were on the other side), but at least the snow muffled their noise and, as Batman pointed out, anyone inside the cabins would be sleeping like a log at this hour.

The intrepid pair finally moved past a stack of oil drums and saw his mystery fortress. The building itself wasn't impressive: single story, dull red brick, ninety feet long, forty feet wide, no windows. The place looked boring, benign. It was all the security around the building that made it interesting. As Batman had mentioned the other night, there was an obvious main door in the front. You really couldn't miss it. She spied two soldiers flanking the door and another manning a screening station nearby. These were serious hombres - steel helmets, bayonets fixed, the whole nine yards. Bright lights shone above them in every direction. All the party needed was a chained rottweiler and a moat to complete the message: _nope, Uncle Sam says you're not getting in here, scram_. While she watched, another pair of troops marched by, undoubtedly circling the site.

Keeping a wide berth, they navigated around to the side. They soon passed the vehicle entrance, paying careful attention to its own light show and nearby complement of biceps. Sliding though and over a maze of alleys, they approached the rear with bated breath. Anything could have changed. They might have stationed a tank there tonight.

But then they saw it - as shabby and unsupervised as an orphan in the arctic - the all-important rear door. Batman and Catwoman gave each other a microscopic nod.

Suddenly, another pair of soldiers marched past, different from the circling pair before. So there were two sets of roving sentries! Batman ran some mental numbers: the building perimeter was 260 feet; a marching path around it would be about 272 feet. Standing in front of the door made them visible to a soldier occupying 28 of those feet. Assuming the two teams of sentries were evenly spaced and marched at five feet per second ...

"Worst case scenario: we have twenty-two seconds out of cover."

"That's ... going to be a challenge."

"But I doubt the pairs are optimally distant."

"How much more time might that give us?"

"Not much."

"Great."

"We can still leave."

"What? Oh, no. No, no, no."

Catwoman slid a thin black case out of her hip satchel.

"I figure you don't get out much, so here's a tip-"

"I'm outside nearly every night."

"You know what I mean, idiot. Now, social rule number one ..."

With a flick, her black case accordioned into five layers of pockets and loops holding three dozen fine lockpicks.

"You don't invite a girl to the dance and not take her out on the floor."

The Dark Knight didn't look amused.

"And then your line is: _Grrr, let's dance._"

"Fine, get ready."

"You're really bad at this."

* * *

Amanda Waller's "quarters" composed the entirety of what was once the junior officers' club, one of the few stone buildings in camp and among the rare set with indoor plumbing. By the standards of most officers they could have fit three beds inside. By the standards of the enlisted men they could have fit twelve. The official justification for all her extra room was that, as a woman, Waller needed her own space as a matter of decorum. Her private justification was, well, nonexistent; Amanda Waller didn't justify herself to anyone, not on this side of the Potomac. And privileged or not, she still found the place primitive and cramped. She had known poverty; she wasn't eager to recreate it.

Waller went to sleep most nights around eleven, but tonight she sat in her paisley nightgown on her wooden chair reading a fresh issue of _Ladies' Home Journal _with a smile. After a long day supervising military projects and sensitive affairs of state, Amanda loved nothing more than sitting down and pouring over the latest fashions, child-rearing tips, marital tiffs, and those silly comics from the body odor ads. Everybody needed a way to blow off steam, but what could a stubborn goat like her get out of it? Mockery? Novelty? Voyeurism? Wistfulness? No one knew. She sure wasn't talking.

There was a knock at the door.

Amanda took off her reading glasses and closed the magazine. "Enter."

If it seemed strange that she answered an interruption so politely, it was because every soul in Fort Morrison knew that bothering her at night without an emergency was suicide.

Also, her guests were screened by a very effective doorman.

The door opened. Lt. Slade Wilson ducked to fit through the entrance. "Captain Roach has a message for you, ma'am."

She stood. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

Behind him shuffled in a fit, balding officer roughly two feet shorter than Wilson. He put his hat under his arm and nodded. "Miss Waller, one of our radio boys just got a curious report from the traffic checkpoint at the foot of the hill."

"Yes?"

"Two members of Baker squad ran to the checkpoint claiming they found a car hidden in the woods while performing reconnaissance southeast of the Fort."

Any tiredness in Waller's features disappeared. "A car?"

"A, uh, Ford Model 48, ma'am. Unoccupied. Sitting in a grove of evergreens."

She squinted thoughtfully. "Baker squad, that's Lt. Stephens' platoon. What did he have to say?"

"He wasn't present, ma'am. The two messengers claimed he sent them on ahead with the news so he and the remainder of the squad could keep inspecting the vehicle. We've sent a pair of mechanics with a radio to meet them and find out more."

"Good. Did the messengers have anything else to say about the car?"

"Well, it had tinted windows. Besides that and the fact that it got as far as it did through a forest, nothing remarkable."

"Very well, Captain. Listen closely: we are now in a state of active intrusion. Take whatever men and measures you need, but no one gets in or out of the Fort. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I want us on alert ten minutes ago. The colonel and I will arrange search teams once your perimeter is firmly established. Dismissed."

* * *

It was seven paces from the all-important rear door to the nearest cover, a shoulder-high pile of frozen, half-rotted potatoes. There was surely a story there, but potato mysteries failed to spark his interest at the moment. He did find it interesting that, after watching a few circuits, the gap between patrols averaged just over a half minute, and that moving to and from cover quietly took perhaps six seconds. He and Catwoman used the gaps to study the two locks. On their first creep, she held her flashlight in her teeth, raised a pair of choice lockpicks, and in moments the deadbolt fell open like wrapping paper. Out of habit, she had hunched her body to hide her light, but then noticed Batman was keeping her concealed with one cape-arm.

Once the deadbolt was loose, they scurried back to the potatoes to wait for the next opening.

"Hey, that was clever hiding me with the cape. Is that how you took photographs with a flash last time?"

He nodded indifferently, focused elsewhere. She preferred to interpret that as "_Why thank you for noticing, Catwoman. Yes I did. The cape is such a versatile acccessory_. _Happy to help._" Of course, she realized this was a ridiculous translation - he would never use the word "happy".

On the next run, they faced the real monster, the combination lock. Catwoman gently knelt down and put her ear to it, teasing the knob ever so gently. Batman waited patiently as she worked, but soon time was running short and he tapped her on the shoulder. She elbowed him in his shin and kept working. He grabbed her under the arms and pulled her out of sight.

On their next try, she found the first number.

On their next try, she found the second and the third. The combination lock clicked open. They crept back to hide, readying for the final approach.

On their next try, they put an ear to the door, waited a moment, and nodded. This was it. Batman pulled the handle ...

... and stopped abruptly seven inches out. The hinges were so warped or rusted that the heavy door was stuck. He pulled and pulled, planting his boot on the wall for leverage, until he heard a harsh metal grinding. Any more force and he would damage the door; they wouldn't be able to hide that.

Catwoman watched helplessly. _We're not getting this open, are we?_

He glanced back. _Not without leaving a door on the ground._

_I guess that's why they stopped using it in the first place._

He scanned the building corners. _We have about eight seconds. _

_Close it and we'll think of something else._

Batman nodded and shoved a shoulder into the door. It slid three inches and stuck again, narrowly open. He tried to push it closed, but the stubborn door wouldn't budge. He tried to rapidly pull then push, shaking it harshly to loosen whatever was jammed. It moved an itch in either direction.

She grabbed his arm. _Just leave it. Let's go._

_If they notice the door is open, we're compromised._

_No one will notice that it's open an inch, but we're definitely compromised if they see us. Go!_

They hurried back to cover, not a moment too soon. The next sentry pair was right around the corner and marching towards them. Batman's thoughts raced through plans and consequences as he watched them approach. They were steps away from the incriminating entrance ...

Suddenly, a tremendous horn erupted through the camp like an air raid siren. The deep note echoed over the mountains miles away. Catwoman could feel her teeth vibrating. A cloud of nesting birds burst out of the treeline. The deafening noise almost knocked the two sentries over. They turned and sprinted away towards some distant rally point.

Batman and Catwoman slowly left cover.

She held her forehead as if it might shake loose.

"OW! It's like I fell in a giant tuba!"

"Hm."

"Really? That didn't startle you at all?"

Batman grunted. "I don't-"

The tremendous horn sounded again. Mounds of snow vibrated off of roofs. Yelling and running could be heard in all directions.

"ARRGG! For the love of- _will they stop that?!_"

"We've been compromised."

"Then we better hurry up."

Batman shot her a stern look. "We need to leave. They're starting a manhunt."

But Catwoman had already grabbed the door, planted both feet on the wall, and pried it open. She hopped lightly down and slipped through the half-open gap.

She glanced back. "Coming?"

He stared at the door. "You damaged the bracket screws."

She covered her mouth in shock. "Oh no! Now they might get mad at us!"

He frowned, but she was already gone.


	10. Horrors at the Bottom of a Pit

All claims are DC. Please enjoy. Reviews humbly appreciated.

**Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold**

**Chapter 10: Horrors at the Bottom of a Pit  
**

* * *

Colonel Abner Tanner's room was slightly smaller than Amanda Waller's, but unlike her, he was aware that the space was excessive. He stayed because there were certain things a camp's commanding officer just had to do, and one of those things was to stay in bigger quarters than his subordinates. He didn't have to enjoy it. If he compensated for this, it was by keeping the furnishings as Spartan one could without knocking out a load-bearing wall. He had a cot, a blanket, a footlocker, a gas lamp, a small sink, a small mirror, and an old phone which now didn't work.

Most nights the Colonel was asleep by ten, but tonight he was still awake, sifting through the backlog of orders and rosters stemming from the radical patrol changes. He sat on the edge of his cot, reviewing forms by lamplight with a stubby pencil. Telling one hundred and seventy-four human beings what to do every hour of the day was no easy task. Meeting the new priorities while allotting the men a chance to eat and sleep was an ugly balancing act. Double-checking that no building or shovel was assigned to two tasks at once added a set of pins to juggle. And providing enough slack in it all so that a cracked window or stomach ache didn't stop the whole operation could drive a lesser man mad.

Tanner had assistants for this sort of thing, and he was smart enough to delegate to his officers, but there were still certain forms a colonel had to review personally. When he had such a large pile he preferred to make a dent in it before bed. It was very boring, but he soldiered on. Every so often he would tap his chin with his pencil and stare at his letter wall. Tanner did have one set of decorations in his room: a hanging grid of twenty-four framed letters from his time in the Army. Most letters that a soldier kept were from mothers or sweethearts. Tanner's letters were from bureaucrats and hearing boards. The colonel was sentimental in a way: he thought of each letter as punctuation in the story of his career - some were periods, many were question or exclamation marks, and a disturbing few were ellipses. Of course, the punctuation meant little without the prose.

The authors knew this. The letters were bland and vague in the fussy style of all embarrassing federal documents. They piled on terms like "our miscarriage of justice", "appraisals of your recent actions", "fit to reinstate at rank and grade", and "a plea of no contest regarding the aforementioned scenario". Most offered so little context and so few proper nouns that a stranger wouldn't have the first clue what specific events were being described. But Tanner knew what the coy authors weren't saying. He remembered every lurid story. He knew the context, and – to the eternal fear of certain figures – he knew every last proper noun.

In fact, when Abner Tanner looked at his letters, he didn't see "appraisals of your recent actions". No, what he saw was:

_"As the only sober witness at the scene of the detonation, you're free to go." _

_"Sorry for the false incrimination again, here's a plaque. Have fun in Havana."_

_"We've negotiated with the Belgians; you can come home if we all agree that neither party at the wreckage technically declared war." _

_"Upon further investigation, the committee recognizes that all seventeen mules died of natural causes."_

_"President Coolidge assures us that you didn't mean to challenge him to a duel."_

…and so on across the long wall. Some mementos made him smile, some made him cringe, but only one could bring a tear to his eye. His most cherished possession was a little wooden case displaying a burnished medal shaped in a bronze cross: the _Croix de Guerre_, awarded for gallantry in 1918 as a volunteer of the French Foreign Legion. Behind that medal was a beer-stained old telegram from 1920 informing him that because he was later discovered to be underage when he joined the Legion, he would not be allowed to display such a medal on his Army uniform.

Like most men mellowed by age and capable of recognizing irony, these days he thought it was sort of funny. He had given his life to the Army, but in that long career of imbroglios and mostly sitting behind a desk, the one medal he actually earned on the field of battle was the one they wouldn't let him wear.

And it was _French_, for gosh sakes.

He tried not to be bitter. _C'est la vie_, and whatnot. Actually, he was very fond of France. The little bronze medal didn't remind him of the muddy trenches or the dysentery. It didn't even remind him of the medal ceremony. It reminded him of those golden weeks in Paris when Jean Claude, Neil, and the rest really showed him the town. The whole city was a party then. He had the best wine, the loudest dancing, and the latest mornings in his life. When Jean Claude recognized a certain implication of his youth and strait-laced upbringing, the wily romantic tried to trick him into one of Paris' busy cathouses. The young Tanner only realized why there were so many pretty ladies in dishabille at the last minute and escaped out a window.

His affection for the French ran deep. When their surrender was signed back in June, he nearly cut his hand crushing a glass of water. Those proud souls were being kicked and gutted by the bloodthirsty Ratzis, and this gnawed his conscience raw. He knew the news on the ground as well as anyone; the Brits were brilliant at that sort of thing and happy to share. He also knew that Fort Morrison was among the very few places where an American might ready the war effort in the meantime. Anything less would be disgusting. For that reason alone he hadn't left yet.

He heard crunching footsteps and a knock at the door. "You awake, colonel?

The voice was Staff Sergeant Hank Jackson, one of the few men in camp near Tanner's age and a friend.

Colonel Tanner spoke back, "Yeah, Jackson."

"Then open up. Got news."

It was ancient military law that old sergeants could say whatever they wanted to their commanders in private if it saved time or saved lives. The colonel stood and unlocked the door (he didn't feel he needed a guard). Staff Sergeant Jackson briskly pushed his way inside. He was a flinty-eyed curmudgeon with a paunch and Popeye's forearms. His polished shoes were no disguise; Jackson was the sort you never wanted to cheat at cards or meet in an alley. One of the main reasons nations had armies was to give mean bruisers like him someone else to pick on.

"Queer finding jus' came in, Abner."

"What's that?"

"Baker squad found an empty car parked in the woods south o' the Fort."

"A car? Whose car?"

"Don't know. Some two-door Ford. The message has already sped along to our _lady guest_," Jackson scowled just mentioning her, "but the radio boys didn't seem to think you were worth informin' at this time a' night. Lucky for you, I heard the commotion and thought I'd rectify that." The staff sergeant growled this in a way that made it clear part of his rectifying would involve having a long talk with the "radio boys" about their priorities _vis-à-vis_ the chain of command. "For now, we got a pair o' gearheads trottin' down to this car as we speak. Should know more soon."

The Corporal crossed his arms thoughtfully. "Alright. I imagine Waller will react to this with her usual reserve and sense of proportion."

"Heh. Then we ought to be hearing a general alarm any-"

Suddenly, a tremendous horn erupted through the camp like an air raid siren. The two old soldiers stared at each other, bored and annoyed. Staff Sergeant Jackson waited for the noise to die down before continuing.

"-second now."

* * *

Amateur detectives trusted their instincts.

Skilled detectives trusted only reason and observation.

And master detectives reluctantly trusted ... their instincts.

As the theologians said, pride was truly the greatest sin. Pride put unjustified faith in one's capacities, and the smarter you were, the easier a trap this was to fall into. It took a great dose of intellectual humility to recognize that the brain did half its work beneath the surface. This was bitter medicine for the thinking man because it meant losing control. The subconscious was a fickle beast from a distant land; it ran on its own accord. You couldn't graph an intuition. You couldn't peer review a feeling. Acting on "the willies" didn't hold up in a court of law.

Still, a wise man understood that his subconscious had many uses. It was always on, always finding connections and seeking meaning. And it ran on different gears than the familiar end of the brain, sidestepping the myopia and biases of old-fashioned awareness. In fairness to its detractors, translating instinct was terribly difficult. You only had that sense of unease, that tingle in your spine. What did it mean? What if it was wrong? The answer was simply, like all good things, that knowing when to trust your instincts took practice.

Batman had a substantial amount of practice and knew very well how to judge his instincts. But he still had just enough pride for it to annoy him.

The stuck door Catwoman so impetuously entered led to a cluttered mass in pitch darkness: a janitorial supply room. The sliver of moonlight from the doorway offered a fragment of wooden shelves and buckets, but even before he saw this it was obvious from the layers of scents: bleach, borax, varnish, and soap.

Something here made him uneasy. The skin on his hands and neck prickled. His gut flipped. There was something out of place, something dark. Batman scowled. He was tired of walls and secrets. It was well past time to rip this case open and drag it into the light.

* * *

The stuck door Catwoman so smoothly entered led to a cluttered mass in pitch darkness: a big mop closet. The sliver of moonlight from the doorway offered a fragment of wooden shelves and buckets, but even before she saw this it seemed likely from the scents: bleach and a few other cleaning supplies.

As Batman wrenched the door shut behind them, she pulled out her flashlight and looked around. Yep, mop closet.

This was a huge relief. Catwoman knew the layouts of the sites she thieved down to the last power outlet. When blueprints or a preliminary stroll through were impossible, she could normally make a few safe assumptions based on the kind of building and other hints. But she had absolutely zero familiarity with secret military corpse stealing compounds. Entering a guarded site blind was one of the stupidest things a lady in her line of work might try. Who knew what lay beyond the door? It could be a busy hallway. It could be an occupied kitchen. It could be a shark pit. Really, mop closet was a best case scenario.

But of course, Grumble-face suddenly grimaced like he had eaten a pail of hot peppers.

"What's wrong?"

He glared around suspiciously. "I ... don't know yet."

"Great. Let's get going." Catwoman went to open the exit on the other side.

"Hold up."

"You know we can't stay here."

"Just a minute." Batman got his own flashlight from a belt pouch and studied the shelves. "I sensed something on the way in. A smell"

"There are a lot of smells. Let's move."

"This room's important."

"If you spill soup on the carpet."

"Stop talking."

"You-"

"Stop talking now."

Catwoman was about to respond with appropriate force when he stated to mutter at the bottles. "-_Lanolin, formaldehyde_, _pH-neutral detergent, sterile gauze, wire brushes, iodine-"_

Catwoman looked over his shoulder. "Hello?"

He answered as he looked. "I smelled the formaldehyde. No janitor would need a bottle, not this size. And there are other items that don't belong."

"Do they mean anything to you?"

Batman continued to search for a moment then turned, his face drawn tight. In his hand was a long scalpel.

"Unfortunately they do."

* * *

Minutes later.

Fort Morrison was never intended for combat and didn't have a formal war room. Colonel Tanner's office proved the next best thing. The hastily assembled pow-wow consisted of the colonel, a scattering of officers, Miss Waller, and her constant shadow Lt. Wilson. The room was dark save for the illumination of a slide projector. One of the officers, Captain Roach, stood before the rest and was busy drawling lines and circles on a projected map of the Fort. The other officers occasionally interrupted with comments or questions.

Amanda Waller leaned over and whispered to Colonel Tanner, _"Still think I overreacted?_"

The colonel quietly responded, "_Frankly, yes. You had a footprint. Now you have an empty car. A car that, let's not forgot, isn't even on Fort property. Not exactly a smoking gun, Waller."_

She raised an incredulous eyebrow. "_You think the driver was lost and ran off the road? No one would park so deep in these woods without aggressive intentions. __Might as well be spitting distance._"

_"I agree it's worth a reaction, but you're turning us into the Alamo. Unless they brought a helicopter, any intruders will have to come through the front door, especially on a night like this."_

_"I'm disappointed, Colonel Tanner. Reading your record one would never guess you possessed so little imagination."_

_"Looking at your record, Miss Waller, one would never guess you existed. Forgive me if I take your judgments on tactical matters with a grain of salt."_

She gently smiled. "_My record is as extensive as it is spotless, colonel; it's not my fault you aren't cleared to see it. Although I suspect seeing a sequence of unblemished field operations would confuse you. I can't imagine you know what one looks like."_

Behind them, Lt. Wilson chuckled. Though a clenched effort of will, the colonel kept his response to himself. He was a man of honor, and there were certain things a man of honor didn't say to a lady.

The presentation up front quickly finished and the lights were turned back on. Colonel Tanner stood up and the rest of the room quickly followed.

"Thank you, Captain Roach. You know your orders gentlemen. Come morning, I'm sure we'll figure out what this is all about, but let's keep circling the wagons in the meantime. Dismissed."

The officers nodded and collected their coats and folders. Amanda spoke up. "Just one final note, if you please."

The colonel gave a tired look but raised a hand for her to proceed.

"Officers, if we have infiltrators on site, and I strongly believe we do, this is a cause for maximum vigilance. Few of you have experience in the intelligence community, so you'll have to believe me when I say a hostile agent can be supremely clever. It was pure luck we uncovered that Ford in the woods tonight. I don't depend on getting lucky twice. In that spirit, we have to be ready for any trick. Maybe the infiltrators have cut a hole in the fence during a prior visit. Maybe they are in disguise as one of our own. Or maybe someone in our ranks has been coerced into aiding them-"

The officers responded with a chorus of angry denials. Amanda held up her hands for silence.

"I'm only saying to be ready for anything. I once attended a three-party meeting in the Polish embassy with a delegation from the Red Army. When the Polish diplomats wanted to speak privately, I noticed some of the Soviet officers excusing themselves to use the bathroom. Eventually, I got suspicious and forced the door open. The Russians were busy planting microphones in the walls. They were spying on the meeting room!"

The only enlisted man present, young Private Fletcher, looked up from the projector he was taking apart.

"I guess that bathroom had a _leak_!"

There was utter silence in the office. Private Fletcher grinned and lifted his eyebrows. "Get it?"

Amanda Waller closed her eyes as if in pain. "Private?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"How many pushups can you do?"

"Uh ... I'd say sixty-five, ma'am."

"Do eighty right now or you clean every latrine in camp for the rest of the winter."

The private gaped in fright and hopped to the floor.

The other officers walked out. The colonel huffed and Amanda turned to him.

"I'm sorry, did I infringe on your authority?"

"Pun like that? I would've given him a hundred."

* * *

Minutes earlier.

There was no light entering the mop closet, so Batman and Catwoman felt safe to leave. One the other side was a dark locker room with several shower stills and far too many sinks. It was a relief to be out of the cold, but the air was rank and humid. Every surface was chipped and stained. This was not a wholesome place. There was light shining under the far entrance. Presumably, anyone inside this strange building would have left with the alarms, but presumptions had a bad track record tonight. They huddled beside the door. There was no sound on the other side. Catwoman lowered onto her stomach and pulled out a very small mirror with a thin handle. She stuck her face up to the bottom gap and slid her mirror slowly under the door, adjusting the angle.

Batman tapped her shoulder blade.

_Anything?_

Catwoman shook her head and made a few gestures with her free hand.

_Just a hallway. Twenty feet long. __Nobody home._

He nodded.

They stood and quietly opened the door. They were in the middle of the hallway, equidistant from swinging double doors at each end. The hallway was crude like a passage in a cargo ship: bare walls and naked light bulbs. There were black skid marks on the tile floor: heavy carts obviously rolled through regularly.

Catwoman said, "Left or right?"

"The garage has to be ahead facing left and the heavier tire marks lead right. Whatever's being carried is dropped off and-"

She snapped her fingers under his face. "Short version?"

"Go right."

They crept to the swinging doors at the right end of the hallway. The other side was dark. Batman slowly pushed one open. Catwoman steadily aimed her flashlight around the room. The dim light was a montage of haunting images. A stack of emesis basins on a shelf. A freight elevator. A large device Batman recognized as an autoclave. Shiny green floor tiles, scrubbed immaculate. The metal frame of a gurney. A handsaw.

Batman hit the light switch. It was an operating room.

He grimaced but swiftly got to work searching through the drawers and cabinets. Catwoman leaned against the wall with a troubled frown.

"This is it, right? Some sort of human testing?"

He didn't answer. She looked back through the swinging door to make sure the coast was clear and give him a minute.

"Anything incriminating?"

Batman shut the drawer he was examining. He didn't look her way, but she could see the edge of his frustrated glare. "No. Just surgical tools."

"You were expecting to find a place like this from day one, weren't you?"

He said nothing.

She pushed. "Weren't you?"

"It was first in a short list of possibilities."

"Does it ever hurt to be the world's greatest detective?"

He didn't answer.

Letting him have his silence, she walked in a circle around the room. "So what now? The elevator looks promising, looks like it was made to hold this gurney."

"Right, but it's loud and we can't let others see it moved. We need-."

"Don't worry, I know exactly what you're thinking."

Catwoman shut the light off.

* * *

Two minutes later.

The Gotham Containment Influenza Laboratory was a long, single-story brick building with no windows. The name was an anachronism, but the building's current program was far too cautious for something as bold as a title, so the old one was kept officially. Everyone just called it the Brick. It was shaped like a brick and colored like a brick and made of bricks. Also, anyone who tried to run into it received serious head trauma. The whole Fort knew about the Brick, but less than twenty people were allowed inside. None of them were talking.

Amanda Waller and Lt. Slade Wilson walked briskly toward its front entrance. She had work to do in her office in light of these intrusions, but it was also for safety's sake: the Brick was obviously the last building anyone could break into. She nodded to the checkpoint sentry and flashed her ID card. Lieutenant Wilson just strode past. Reaching her office near the front, she turned to him.

"Have them send someone to man my door; I need you on the offensive. Pick the search team you like best and lead it. Find these interlopers."

"And when they don't keep up?"

"Go alone for all I care, but if you get into hot water because you didn't bring backup, you and I are going to have a problem."

"Right."

She stared him in the eye with a serious frown. "And you better not forget the rules."

He dryly recited. "Better a prisoner than a body; better a body than a witness. I know the drill, m_other_."

"Real funny, Wilson. Go."

* * *

There were many differences between a city dweller and a city infiltrator. Work hours. Social circle. Life expectancy. But the biggest difference was in attitude towards elevators. A city dweller saw an elevator as a boxy means of conveyance. A city infiltrator saw an elevator as an inconvenient stepping stone to a rope.

Like many freight elevators, this one was nearly skeletal, not bothering with wallpaper or mirrors or other comforts. It was a cage of metal latticework; they could look through and see the weights and pulleys in the shaft outside. Keen eyes and a flashlight showed that there was one stop far below them, three stories underground.

In no time, they found the maintenance hatch above and pulled up through. The two of them crawled over to the side and nimbly climbed down the elevator's exterior to the cables. Then they rappelled.

As Batman and Catwoman quietly descended, the air grew chilly and they began to hear a loud _hum_. When they reached the bottom, they turned on their flashlights and cautiously crept forward. It was a long room. There were scores of what seemed to be lockers on the wall, all three feet square. Catwoman found and hit the light switch. The lamps were greenish and dull, casting shadows in the corners. The whole space was cramped like a mine; the ceiling was a foot too low. He had to hunch to fit the ears of his cowl. There were four darkened passages along the walls leading to rooms unknown.

Batman looked around. "The noise is coming from these lockers." He slowly rotated, piecing together the room. "Wait," he paused a minute, staring into space, " ... four- ... five- ... six- ... seventeen ... seventeen ..."

Catwoman waited tensely for him to finish. "Seventeen what? Seventeen lockers? Locker seventeen?"

Batman's chin started to tick back and forth like a man speed-reading without a book. His mouth moved soundlessly. Catwoman grabbed his arm. "Hey! What do you know about this place?"

Suddenly, his trance broke and he grimaced in passionate rage. Catwoman fought the urge to discreetly step back. Batman could cover ground in an instant when he really wanted to. In three steps, he flew to the nearest humming locker and grasped the handle, dragging her along.

Catwoman stepped firmly in his way and yelled in his face. "_Seventeen of what_?"

Batman paused. He looked down at her, calm and lucid again. "These are freezers. There's forty in the room, but only seventeen are plugged in right now."

She let go of his arm. "... Okay. If they're freezers, are ... are you saying-"

He nodded slowly. "Watch."

Batman pulled the handle of the freezer. There was a blur of icy air. Then a long tray swiftly slid out with a putrefying body on it. The grayed corpse was missing both legs at the hip and half of one forearm. Its dessicated face was shriveled and sunken.

Catwoman didn't even try to hide her fit of dry heaving. "_Oh, God._" She bent double. This lasted quite some time before she caught her breath. She stared at the body numbly.

Batman looked strangely ambivalent, like an old hunch was finally proven. He closed the locker for her sake.

"The number was significant, but I didn't initially recognize. It's the number of bodies stolen from Gotham. Seventeen. Now we have it. This is evidence"

Catwoman looked at him, looked at the locker, looked around the room, and dry heaved again.


	11. Opening Moves

All claims are DC. Please enjoy. Reviews humbly appreciated.

**Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold  
**

**Chapter 11: Opening Moves  
**

* * *

When people thought about the guilty pleasures a crook might have, they imagined the most provocative mixes of dames, dice, and liqueur - the sinister pastimes one found confined to international waters. This line of thinking was flawed: crooks loved vice, but they didn't feel guilty about it.

No, to embarrass a crook, you had to look at what he valued: reputation. He couldn't be seen as a preening sissy or a slack-jawed oaf; the other crooks would give him no respect. To get respect, one had to maintain a sense of cool disinterest in petty things. So what was a crook's guilty pleasure? Vanity. Some of the biggest fans of crime stories were criminals. Rumor had it John Dillinger visited the moving pictures all the time to watch reels of himself with a big bag of popcorn on his lap and a smile on his face. Gangsters and stick-up men loved watching movies about gangsters and stick-up men.

This generality did not extend to Catwoman. She liked the cinema just fine, just not crime thrillers. Okay, the tough-guy dramas could be fun, with their long coats and their speakeasies, but if she wanted the antics of a pack of mafiosos, she could just ask one out to dinner. No, the worst were cat burglar movies. She didn't need anyone to romanticize her work. Sure it was flattering, but she already knew she was daring and clever. All that was left was to appreciate was the craft portrayed, and the scripts were uniformly terrible at that. It was like watching a carpenter make a fine mahogany table with a hatchet and a plunger. A dunce who had no clue what woodworking looked like might be impressed, but all the carpenters in the audience would throw their drinks at the screen and demand a refund.

The part Catwoman resented the most was how easy they made it look. Not the technical skills necessarily, as distorted as those were, but the overall flair that film thieves seemed to have in spades. They never coughed or tripped. They always had something witty to say, whether they were swinging from a chandelier in the palace of the Dauphan or breaking out of jail in Mississippi. They never broke a sweat.

Sure, she could look like that, _but only she could look like that! _Well, her and a scant handful of peers. A very thin group in any case (in every sense of the word). Yes, on a good day Catwoman could breeze through locked windows and wall safes like she wasn't even trying, but it took tremendous practice and focus to look that casual. She loved her work, but it was _work_. And sometimes you were blindsided and landed on your metaphorical rump. They never showed that in the films.

For instance, Catwoman had never seen a classy lady-burglar in a movie sent gagging after being shown half a frozen corpse in a secret morgue. There really wasn't an opportunity to be clever or saucy in that situation. She offered a silent prayer of thanks that she rarely ate before a mission.

Batman tersely watched her as she recovered. If a bystander was injured, he administered first aid. If they were intact, he ignored them and moved on. Catwoman didn't fit into either of those categories. He frowned. Science demanded experimentation with sufficient sample size, and one evening hardly counted as a robust sample. Still, so far his instincts were leaning as expected: working alone was so much easier.

"I'll stay and catalog the remains. You should ... investigate those paths."

Catwoman was slowly gained her bearings, hunched over with her head limp. Her stomach was twisted in knots. She managed a grateful nod.

"Yeah. Sounds like a plan."

* * *

Game theory was the study of strategic decision making. As the name implied, it often used card or board games as thought experiments to explore ideas of competition and cooperation. Game theory was only a few years old as a formal academic discipline and known chiefly by a small fringe of mathematicians and economists, most famously John Nash. If someone wanted to demonstrate exactly why tic-tac-toe was boring using elaborate calculus, game theory had the tools for the job.

But like many economic concepts, the math of game theory demonstrated lessons that smart people frequently figured out on their own. For instance, Lt. Slade Wilson had never talked to an economist, but he was awfully clever at what a game theorist would call "utility maximizing behavior". As Wilson thought of it: if there was an intruder, he could either use the main entrance or scale the perimeter somehow. If an intruder entered in the main entrance, he was stupid. If he was stupid, the rest of guards could handle him. But if he scaled the perimeter, then he might be smart. If he was smart, then Wilson's unique talents might be needed. Therefore, even without any knowledge of the intruder's mindset, Lt. Wilson knew to start his search at the perimeter.

When he left the Brick, instead of leaving the way he came, he detoured around the side of the building towards the nearest edge of the woods. Mulling over the acres of brush he would have to check, he nearly missed the one tiny detail out of place. There was a locked door in the back of the Brick. It hadn't been opened as long as he had been on base. But though the twirling snow, he absently spied a difference in the glint of the rusted brackets. Lt. Wilson was no detective, but he was a hunter, and a tiny shift in surroundings meant everything to a hunter. He stopped, backtracked a step, and took a closer look.

He was right! The screws on the upper bracket were bent and nearly skewed off the door. Was it always like that? Obviously the door was old, but for some reason he didn't think so. What if- ... wait ... something else was wrong. He peered around.

There! The padlock was open and the latch was loose! He was sure that was new. It could only be set from the outside. Anyone who entered would leave it undone.

He was about to throw open the door but thought better of it. _Might as well do this the right way, any visitors inside aren't going anywhere. _Lt. Wilson sprinted to the Brick's front.

"Walgrave! Cortez! Haney!"

The door guards stared at him.

"The intruder's in the Brick."

Private Walgrave raised an eyebrow. The soldiers tried not to cross the scary lieutenant, but after standing in three inches of snow at midnight there were things a man just didn't care about anymore.

"Look, sir. I'm sure we would have seen someone."

Wilson's glare kicked up six notches. He would break that attitude later.

"The back door's unlocked. Cortez, keep manning this screening station. You stop anyone who comes out until I return. I mean anyone. Walgrave, pass the orders along to the vehicle entrance, then guard the back door. Haney, go inside and protect Miss Waller's office. Let's move it! Now!"

* * *

The subterranean morgue was evidently the hub of its floor. Besides having the elevator, there were four darkened passages leading away it, two on each side. When she could walk again, Catwoman arbitrarily chose the first passage on the left. Anything to avoid the _hum_ of those freezers.

The hallway was pitch black. She eventually found a switch that turned on more of those weak, greenish lamps. She wondered if everyone who worked here got eyestrain from all the poor lighting. Then she wondered if the place still used the same fixtures from its days as an influenza laboratory. The place looked like it hadn't had a fresh coat of paint in two decades, and that would certainly explain the creeping feeling she was getting. Catwoman loved to stroll around all sorts of old buildings in the middle of the night, but she never liked abandoned buildings and she never liked hospitals. This gem had all the charm of an abandoned hospital inside a crypt.

With the help of the creepy lights, Catwoman saw a number of doors branching off the short hallway, but only the one at the end was open. _Hmmm_!

* * *

Daniel Brewster had been a few months away from being Doctor Daniel Brewster when the Army sent a man around to the university looking to fill a research post. Daniel was a patriot and the money was right. He was on the first bus to Gotham. The Fort was somewhat of a shock, but as a graduate student he was used to living in humble conditions.

He wasn't the only one in his class to throw their hat in the ring. The Army picked him for a reason. Daniel was a discount genius, brilliant in that limited sort of brilliance the world of science always needed to polish off the leftover problems in whatever fields the name brand geniuses – the Einsteins and Von Neumanns of the world –  
already trailblazed when those legends moved on to other topics or died. In other words, Daniel was smarter than anyone you knew. He was not smarter than _everyone_ you knew.

And right now he was asleep.

The room at the end of the hall was clearly a testing chamber. There was a grid of desks and workbenches with rugged metal shelves along the sides holding a variety of heavy tools. But the focal point was an empty cement chamber at the far end. It was dug into the wall like a bank safe, its thick metal door sitting open. Inside, every surface was scorched and pockmarked. Heights, radii, and other distances were painted on the cement walls. Lurid caution signs surrounded the chamber, warning all sorts of gruesome fates for those poor stick figures who failed to close the door properly or forgot to ventilate. Daniel Brewster was slumped over the desk closest to the chamber, his head resting on a crumpled lab coat.

Catwoman learned all this about the room when she turned on the lights. She found it unbelievable that anyone could sleep through the sirens earlier, but tonight was proving full of surprises.

There was a style of thief who tended to see and solve problems in straight lines. They traveled the obvious routes and broke things in their way. If they needed information, they found someone who knew it and retrieved it from them. Catwoman was not a fan of this school of thought. She found it vulgar and lacking in finesse. Why make a fuss? With a little caution, she could easily do five jobs without meeting anyone, let alone confronting them. That was how you survived in the business.

That said, Catwoman could appreciate a few of those less elegant skills right now. For the first time in probably ever, she wished Batman were here. He was a master at this sort of thing. But, she was a quick study, and it might be fun to try something new.

...

Daniel Brewster awoke to find the lights on. He rubbed his eyes. _How long have I been asleep? Got to stop dozing off in the laboratories._ _Probably missed dinner._ He shifted his head to see ... a thigh? He blinked. _Did someone leave the vent off again? I'm tired of all these hallucinations. And these lights are going to give me eyestrain one of these days. _Squinting, he looked up to see that the thigh connected to a hip, which was attached to a torso and then an entire human frame, all clad in a fetching violet. The figure was evidently female. Scratch that, it was abundantly female. _How_ was _that_ ... _What_? The few working circuits in his brain clicked feebly through rationales and came up short.

Catwoman sat on the desk beside Daniel's mossy-haired head. She had been tapping his shoulder and was happy to see a response. She hopped off and crouched down to his eye level.

"Hi!"

His eyes swam as he tried to focus on her. "... Who?"

"Don't worry about it. What's your name?"

"De ... Darangels ... Ss ... staggen."

"Nice to meet you, Darangels Ssstaggen."

"What'a do? Where'a da?"

"Great question. The Gotham Health Board is just doing a quick run-through of your operation here, and there are a few things we'd like to ask you."

Daniel groggily stood up. Then he realized he was about to bump into his uncomfortably close visitor and stumbled backwards. Still a young man in the presence of a young lady, he still tried to make the maneuver look smooth and deliberate. Daniel settled for leaning against the desk and crossed his arms.

"You're not ... I don't think you're supposed to be here. I'm ... I'm getting to go get-"

She held a finger to his lips. "Hush. Stay a while. You might like me if you got to know me. After all," she unsheathed a claw under his eyes, "people seem to appreciate my_ sharp wit._" She turned a little and let him see the flamethrower on her back, "And my _glowing_ personality."

He leaned back and frowned like she had three heads, more confused than scared. Catwoman sighed. _Okay, that was corny. This intimidation shtick is harder than it looks._

Finally, Daniel managed to parse words together. "Where'd you get the flamethrower? That's our only prototype."

"I found it on the shelf, kid."

"Well, you better take that off. You don't even know how to use it."

She reached back and grabbed the gun-style nozzle. "True, but ask yourself: is me making a mistake with a flamethrower just as dangerous to you as me using a flamethrower correctly?"

He frowned. "Probably."

"Well there you go. Let's get down to brass tacks..."

* * *

Batman spent roughly twelve seconds examining each refrigerated corpse. It was less than he preferred, but it answered the meaningful questions, and he was on a deadline.

The causes of death were blatant: all munitions and other battlefield hazards. The details weren't perfect; he would need a lab and an hour to distinguish between, say, a face destroyed by a 60mm mortar shell and a face destroyed by an 81mm mortar shell, but it only took a glance to know it was firepower you couldn't find on the street. That was enough.

The twelve seconds were mostly to confirm their identities. Batman knew the pictures and dossiers of the seventeen victims by heart, but bodies looked more and more alike past their expiration date, and it didn't help if their faces were gone. On the other hand, he didn't need to match them all; two or three would be sufficient. A proper investigation would shut the site down and do justice to all the deceased through the proper channels. The legwork was their job. He just needed to get the process started.

The biggest dilemma was what to photograph.

Perhaps surprisingly, Batman was a low-cost enterprise night-to-night. Flashlights were cheap. Rope was cheap. Lab chemicals were cheap in bulk. Fists were free. The car was reasonable; he modified it himself. There just weren't many personal tools that became that much more useful with extra zeros on the price tag. No one sold a ten dollar hammer that struck with ten times the force of a one dollar hammer.

An exception to this rule was in his camera. Batman didn't operate within the justice system; he couldn't make arrests or display evidence in court. In the long run, he was only useful in fighting crime insofar as he guided the professionals who could work within the system. And when he didn't have a suspect to hand over, the only alternative for proof was often a photograph. The problem was that average consumer cameras were bulky and blurry. Small cameras were very expensive. High quality cameras were very expensive. A very small, high quality camera cost a small mint. Fortunately, he had one.

Still, even such a masterwork needed film, and film took up space. On nights he expected to examine quiet crime scenes, he brought plenty at the expense of other tools. But this mission had so many risks and unknowns; he had to prepare for anything. That meant he had to pack for anything. Regrettably, that meant film was scarce. He never knew what important evidence he might see further on, so he had to prioritize what he shot here. He stuck to two cadavers that would be easiest to identify with public records, making sure to get the best angle to demonstrate the violent postmortem injuries. It was grim business, but he proceeded swiftly and methodically, treating it like nothing more than business.

* * *

Lieutenant Slade Wilson broke the back door of the Brick with a firm tug. He was trying to open it silently, but you can't win at everything.

Flanking him were Milo and Colt squads, fifteen crack military policemen he fortuitously found en route to the front gate. If it were up to him, he would have surrounded the building with the whole Fort roster, but that would take time. He also admitted that, though he was certain the intruders had entered here, he wasn't certain they hadn't already left, so guarding the rest of the camp was useful. As it was, this was a fine team, and a tolerable substitute for doing the job on his own.

His orders to them were clear: wait four minutes for him to do a covert reconnaissance, and then sweep in if he hadn't returned. This served two purposes. One, if there was an uninvited guest, the top priority was capture, and that was a delicate maneuver he could handle best alone. Two, if he succeeded and returned in time, then it wouldn't be necessary to update the clearance on all these men who were in the dark about the Brick's operations. That would be a major inconvenience.

He crept in. Lt. Wilson knew the rooms by heart and didn't need a light. He eased through the mop closet and the locker room. He glanced in the operating suite. Empty, and the elevator was still there. Down the other end of the short hallway was the garage. He stayed in the shadows, which was easy with its two weak lights. Briskly circling the area, he checked around and under the small convoy parked there. All empty. _Hm_.

The last section of the floor had the offices. He stalked down the hallways, checking each of the doorknobs. Every unoccupied office was to be locked, and he was confident no spy would break into one and lock the door behind them. He avoided the final turn to Waller's office that he knew was protected by Private Haney (he could hear the young soldier's breathing). That was fine, it was one area he didn't have to clear, and a jumpy kid like Haney might do something stupid if startled.

It didn't take long to finish. Every door was locked. That left the basement.

There were two ways into the basement: the freight elevator in the operating suite and a staircase in the office complex. He had just over a minute left until his backup entered. He took the stairs. In the darkness, he glided down the flights, footsteps as silent as oil on glass. The air grew cooler. He pushed his senses through the space around him, tensed for the weakest sound or movement. Steadying himself, Lt. Wilson nudged through the door at the bottom.

* * *

When Batman gathered enough from the morgue, he decided to follow the path opposite Catwoman's. His gut said separating was unsafe, but there was too much ground to cover. The path had more of those weak, greenish lamps. The doors in this hallway had no labels; he chose one at random.

Inside, he found a large room mostly filled with a large glass water tank. It could've been in the city aquarium, but instead of fish and seaweed, the water contained a strange set of pulleys, chains, harnesses, and buckles. Clearly, heavy objects were meant to be manipulated in this tank. The rest of the fairly well-lit room had an assortment of closets, tables, and benches. He saw diving equipment hanging on the wall.

Walking around, Batman pondered the uses of such a place.

Then he heard a noise. _Squeeek_.

* * *

Lt. Wilson passed through the door to find the lights in the hallway already on. _He's here_. The cautious soldier hugged the wall and unholstered his personal M1911 pistol. He scanned around and noticed another light on under the second door, the "Dunk Lab".

But as he snuck forward, he stepped on a nigh-invisible stain on the tile from some chemical spill long ago. The friction was hardly different, but man and gear together weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, and this was just enough for his heavy boot to _squeeek_.

The lieutenant grimaced and paused. Two seconds later, he saw the light in the Dunk Lab shut off. He rolled his eyes. He'd been marked. That would cut into any element of surprise. Now he had to breach a door with an unknown hostile waiting for him somewhere in the dark. Less than ideal.

Wilson turned off the lights in the hallway to even the playing field. He pulled a thin red flare out of his bandolier and readied his trench knife. Standing beside the door (in case the intruder took potshots at it), he reached over and stabbed the wood three times in a rapid staccato until the door had a new hole. Then, with a shower of angry red sparks, he broke open the flare and immediately tossed it through the hole.

He could see the glow around the door. The room had to be blindingly bright.

Lt. Wilson kicked open the door, pistol drawn. He eyed the room but saw no one in the glare.

He frowned and turned on the lights. The big room seemed the same as always, save for a sparking flare on the floor. As he stepped through the doorway, he thought he noticed something interesting beneath him.

In a blink, he realized_ something_ was wrong with his shadow...

* * *

Batman stood precariously atop the sturdy door mantle, balancing on the edge of his heels. He had heard more noises outside and hoped they hadn't noticed the light in here before he turned it off. When a flare flew in, he knew this was not the case. The flash almost shocked him off the door. He turned his head and waited for the spots to disappear. Then a soldier kicked his way in. Still, Batman realized it was possible that he would perform a cursory glance and leave without looking up. When the soldier walked in and turned on the lights, he knew this was not the case.

The huge soldier was fiercely armed and right beneath him. He leaped.

A knee to the back of the head was the obvious solution, but it might be fatal, which ruled out obvious solutions to most of Batman's problems. His alternative was more exotic, a flying headlock.

Amazingly, the soldier ducked a moment before impact, hunching his shoulders and avoiding the "lock". Batman still landed on his back and they both fell. The Dark Knight hadn't even touched the floor before twisting into a ground maneuver. He found leverage and readied a vicious armbar. The soldier's massive arm stretched for a painful instant, dropping his gun, but the man had unexpected range of motion for his build and bent out of the hold, pushing himself away.

Batman followed. They traded grapples and elbows as both men struggled to their feet. The soldier finally made space with a short headbutt and filled it with a front kick. The front kick was a versatile tool, often used like a jab - to force distance as much as to cause damage. Batman caught the impact in his guard and skipped backward a few paces.

The combatants finally eyed each other.

Batman analyzed. _Calm eyes. Linebacker's physique. Lieutenant's bar. White hair but few wrinkles. __Evidently alone._ Sporting weapons on every pocket and belt loop. The gear should weigh him down, but he seems to compensate exceptionally well. _Possibly stronger than me, s_till ought to be slower.

Their shadows danced in the lurid red light of the flare. Then the breath ended. Both leapt forward: the soldier with a diving tackle, Batman with a flying knee. The knee was glancing, kept them at arm's length. They landed and lashed out. Batman moved quicker with a palm strike to the throat, cleanly ducking the soldier's hook. He followed with a few rib shots, deflected a jab, and dropped for a double leg takedown.

The takedown was textbook. Hitting a hard floor wearing a bandolier and a sword had to hurt. Batman moved in to finish with a collar choke. In the instant before the choke closed, Batman felt a threat brush his abdomen. He hopped up just in time, dodging the long knife the soldier had unsheathed on the way down. The man kicked as he stood, keeping Batman at a distance. As he got to his feet, he unsheathed a navel saber in his off-hand.

The soldier coughed. "**Alright, Bela Lugosi. Get on your knees or I cut them off.**"

Batman kept his arms raised and said nothing. It was unwise to rush a swordsman of unknown skill.

The soldier flipped the sword so to the blade pointed down like an ice pick.

Batman raised an eyebrow. That ... wasn't supposed to happen.

In his years spent practicing the martial arts, Batman had learned many helpful guidelines. For instance, if a stranger assumed a fighting pose so unorthodox that no sane master would teach it, there was roughly a 98% chance the stranger was an untrained idiot and about to fall on his face. The human body wasn't that complex; there were only so many sensible stances for it. However, there was always that 2% chance the stranger was a passionate experimenter who spent a lifetime perfecting a fearsome style all his own. In this case, the safe response was to run.

Batman couldn't help but suspect his opponent was in that special 2%.

The soldier rushed forward, leading with the knife. Batman was forced into a guarded retreat, dodging the knife thrusts and the wild "backhand" cuts of the sword. The Dark Knight's gauntlets each had a spine of steel spikes along the outside of the forearm. As the assault pushed closer and faster, he began to catch and deflect the blades on his arms, but none of his usual counters worked on such a deviant grip. He had to stay on the defensive.

Finally, on a marginally slow stab, Batman weaved left and swung his cape ahead, batting the knife arm away.

Some people thought cape fighting never existed. Others though it was a dead art. In a brief shock of recognition, the soldier knew better. He tried to recover by swatting with the sword arm, but Batman had already pulled back and launched a trio of side kicks: to the shin, to the arm, to the chin. The final blow was staggering. In haste, the soldier threw his long knife. Batman leaned away as the blade flew by. This was enough time for him to flip the sword back to its classic angle and grip it with both hands. Batman tried to approach but the soldier burst forward with barbaric energy, taking brutal swings.

This was it. Batman knew that if the sword landed it would take off a limb, but two-handed swings with a navel saber were necessarily unbalanced. He would overstep soon.

Four more furious swings, each closer than the last. Each ducked or dodged. Finally, the soldier lifted his blade behind his head like an axe chopping wood and brought it down. Batman braced himself and caught the saber between his crossed arms. Immediately pulling tight, he had the saber trapped.

But this was a feint. As the swing was landing, the soldier let go of his sword. Quick as a snake, he reached down and brought up his spare pistol. Batman's arms were trapped above with the sword and couldn't react. Seizing this opening, the soldier pushed the gun into Batman's ribs and grabbed a handful of loose fabric near the cowl.

Between two warriors, the understanding was mutual: _checkmate_.

Batman slowly lowered his hands. The sword fell. He heard yelling nearby. A door opened somewhere behind him. Then a wave of bodies dragged him to the floor.


End file.
